


Home

by gingerpunches



Series: serendipity [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Amnesia, Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Connor, Case Fic, First Kiss, First Time, Gore, Kidnapping, Kissing, M/M, MORE CONNOR WHUMP, Memory Loss, Panic Attacks, Slow Burn, Top Hank, Whump, connor is best boy and deserves to be happy, does that tag count if its android parts and blood, from all my readers finding my house and setting fire to my computer, i sincerely apologize to everyone this is going to be how i die, idk im adding it just in case, if androids can have those, more chris!, my readers are seriously going to strangle me, regaining said memory, so does hank except he does chores too, starts out gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-05-20 22:40:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 102,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14903484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingerpunches/pseuds/gingerpunches
Summary: 00:13:56:09 : .//RK800 #323 248 317 - 51 CRITICAL SYSTEM ERROR. PROCESSES HALTING. CPU COMPROMISED. THIRIUM LEAK DETECTED IN QUADRANTS 010 & 256 AT 1.65 PINTS LOST PER HOUR. MOBILITY COMPROMISED. LOW POWER MODE INITIATING. TIME UNTIL LOW POWER MODE INITIATED: 10. 9. 8…Things aren't always easy. They start easy, and sometimes end easy, but the middle is hardly ever what Hank expects.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> can this game stop haunting my dreams please. i need sleep but this is all i think about
> 
> edit: NEW SUMMARY!

And just like that, the revolution is over.

Well, not entirely. Markus’ group secured android freedom for the moment, and with the military now evacuating Detroit, the androids were free to establish a camp for themselves while the President and her senate decided what to do next. Hank desperately wanted things to turn out for the better, but a bitter part of himself still held close his doubt, keeping him sharp enough should it all come crashing down around them.

Which brings him back to Connor. He’s happy his partner is back with him - honestly, he doesn’t know what he’d do if Connor didn’t reappear - but something in him nags to ask.

“Hold on. Shouldn’t you be with Markus and the others?”

Connor stops talking mid-sentence. He doesn’t answer Hank immediately, and with his right temple facing away from Hank, he’s not sure if it’s out of uncertainty or if he just didn’t hear Hank. The latter is impossible - Conner has been chattering nonstop since they got in the car at Chicken Feed, all the pent-up energy from the last twelve hours finally being released now that he’s in more trusted company. Connor was excited, not inattentive. Hank gave him a couple more moments before pushing.

“Connor,” Hank says slowly. He doesn’t need to take his eyes off the road to know Connor is uneasy.

“I am -” Connor’s jaw tightens, his eyes flicking from Hank to the road ahead of them. Hank, just to soothe the android, flips on his hazards despite there being no one else on the road and pulls over, turning in the bench seat to more fully face Connor. Connor mirrors him, his LED spinning yellow, his eyes anywhere but on Hank as his hands twist together in his lap.

“I… don’t want to be there,” he says at length. Hank raises a brow, but Connor doesn’t see it. “All I did was awaken other androids. I’m not designed to - I mean, I don’t want to… create policy deciding the fate of others. I’m still struggling with how I feel. It would be a bad decision on my part to force my will when I still do not understand what that means.”

The clicking of the hazard lights fills the cab for a few long moments, Connor fidgeting in his seat and Hank leaning back against his door, head on his palm, contemplating. Connor chances a glance up at Hank and freezes immediately upon seeing Hank’s gaze on him, his LED flashing from yellow to red and back again. Instead of torturing the poor kid, Hank grins something small, releasing a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“You have nothing to be afraid of, Connor,” Hank says, and wait, isn’t this what Connor is supposed to say? “I’m not gonna force you to go play politician or anything. For God’s sake, I can barely get you to listen to what _I_ say.”

Connor’s carefully blank facade breaks as a smile turns up one side of his lips, a lopsided thing that Hank’s getting used to seeing on his face. Connor reaches across the space between them, his fingers gripping Hank’s coat sleeve where his arm rests along the back of the seat, his big brown eyes soft with gratitude.

“Thank you,” Connor says, his voice raspy. Hank nods, uncertain of what to do. He pats Connor’s hand with his and turns back to the wheel when his partner releases him, turning off his hazards and starting the drive back home.

Connor doesn’t resume his previous thread of conversation or start a new one, and when Hank sneaks a glimpse Connor is staring out the window, his hands fiddling with his quarter in his lap. Hank lets him be, content with the silence, putting his focus on avoiding cars double parked on the streets as the citizens of Detroit evacuate.

It’s only when Hank pulls into his driveway - properly this time - that Connor seems to awaken from whatever trance he was in on the drive over. He pops out of the car, whipping his head around to face Hank, an unreadable look on his face. He startles Hank enough that he scrambles out of the car, expecting to turn around and find an army of SWAT on the other side of the street with how quickly Connor moved out from his seat. When he glances around the street, noting the neighbor across and diagonal from his house packing things into her car and nothing else on the street, he turns around to face Connor who hasn’t moved.

“What’s that look for?” Hank asks gruffly. He circles the front of his car, wary as Connor’s stare follows him.

His LED blinks blue before steadying. “I do not have a place to recharge or perform software repairs. I repaired the gunshot wound I sustained from the other Connor when I visited Markus, but I do not have access to a 3D printer or stasis terminal now that Cyberlife has been put on lockdown. Would you perhaps know where I could find access to these things?”

Hank stares. He snaps his jaw shut, unaware it had been hanging open, and gestures to his house.

“You can stay here,” Hank says, incredulous, as if it hadn’t been obvious enough that he was giving Connor somewhere to stay. “I may not have one of those fancy pods you had back at Cyberlife or the precinct, but I’m not going to dump you on the side of the road to fend for yourself, either.”

Connor’s lips twitch into an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. I guess I was - “

“Overthinking?” Hank scoffs. He cuffs Connor’s shoulder and trudges up the steps, unlocking the front door and holding it open long enough for Connor to catch it and close it behind him. “Just settle in for now. There won’t be much to do until the evacuation is lifted.”

Connor makes a noise like he’s going to say something, but stops himself. Hank gives him a look, unimpressed, even as Sumo slumps across the floor to greet him. He scratches behind his dog’s ears, relishing in this small action, a part of him all too glad that they made it out of this with their lives. Connor seems to feel the same way as Sumo turns for his share of pets, his smile small with a hint of relief in the corners of his eyes.

Hank sighs, catching Connor’s attention again. The android straightens to his full height, his head slightly tilted to one side, the look on his face attentive in the same way he is on a case. Hank doesn’t like it when it’s trained on him, but he stares back, making sure nothing is lost in translation when he speaks.

“I’ll go check out the precinct tomorrow,” he says slowly. “Fowler might be there to hold it down while all this blows over, so I could probably check out some equipment for you.”

Connor’s little smile returns. His posture droops, as if he’d been holding tension in his spine. “Hank, I can’t begin to -”

“I’ll need a list,” Hank interrupts - Connor doesn’t seem perturbed, his grin bright. “A detailed one. There’s no way I’m going to remember any of that technical shit you need since everything seems to be so specific.”

Connor nods sharply. “Of course. I won’t confuse you. While I am a prototype, I was designed with efficiency in mind, so the parts I may need won’t be hard to come by. A 3D printer will be most helpful in the event I will need to replace a biocomponent or other such part - “

“Connor,” Hank sighs. Connor’s jaw audibly clicks as he snaps it shut, though his smile doesn’t go away. Hank can’t help himself but smile back. “Just. Write a list, okay? It’s been a long night.”

The android nods. “Yes. Of course. I’m sorry.”

Hank sighs. “Nothing to be sorry for, okay? Just come with me and we’ll get you all sorted.”

Connor shadows him as he turns down the hall to his room and flicks the lights on. He shucks his coat and shoes, showing Connor where he can put his in the event he doesn’t want to wear them. Connor’s LED flashes yellow, his brow curled in uncertainty, once again coming across the evidence of his newfound freedom and struggling with reconciling that with how he lived before. He doesn’t question it though, only asking if it’s alright if he tries to make his own space should their things get mixed up. Hank finds it amusing - no way in hell are Connor’s long-legged jeans and narrow shoes going to fit Hank - but he agrees, letting his partner designate himself space in the other closet across from the bed.

It never crossed his mind to try and find a different place for Connor to stay. It took only seeing his small, grateful smile as they stood in the snow at Chicken Feed to know that Connor needed to be where someone could help and protect him. And Hank would be damned if he wasn’t going to give Connor the best shake at life that he could, even with his own hardships and misgivings.

Besides, there were much more pressing concerns now. No way in hell would he allow his partner to return to Cyberlife or stay where he had no one to rely on, but Hank was having a hard time deciding where, exactly, Connor should sleep. If he did sleep. Or, go into stasis. Or whatever Connor does at night when he’s not hunting Hank down in bars.

Hank sighs. Maybe he should ask.

“You do… _sleep,_ right?” Hank asks. “Or whatever the fuck you do at night?”

Connor’s smile is amused. “Yes, I do. I go into stasis, in which I upload my memories and software alterations to Cyberlife while also performing updates and repairs. However, with my code and CPU now separated from the Cyberlife cloud and my tracker permanently disabled, I will not be performing the former of the tasks during stasis.”

Hank stares. “So… you need a place to sleep?”

“Yes,” Connor says, a laugh in his voice. “Although a place to sit, like the couch, will be just fine.”

Hank glances at his unmade bed, then to Connor again, his neck warming up with heat he hopes Connor doesn’t catch. Connor watches him but doesn’t seem like he’s scanning, his eyes trained on Hank as he stands near the closet. Hank sighs, resigned, and gestures to the farthest side of the bed from the door.

“No way in hell am I making you sleep on the couch like you’re a guest. That’s your side from now on,” Hank says. “I’ll change the bedding before tonight. Don’t - don’t mention it to anyone at work.”

Connor stares at him, his jaw slightly slack like it does when he’s thinking or caught off guard. His LED spins yellow as he glances at the bed, probably calculating the exact amount of space he needs against Hank’s sleep patterns visible in the tangle of the blankets or something equally horrendous. His stare snaps to Hank as his calculations seem to finish, his eyes soft again with a look that says he’s lost in everything he’d been denied up to this point.

“Thank you, Hank,” Connor says quietly.

Hank nods, unable to form a reply. He busies himself by stripping the bed - probably the first actual chore he’s ever done in literal years - grateful that Connor lets him be. He stuffs the sheets and pillowcases into the washer in the room at the end of the hall before digging out the other set of bedding from the linen closet. Connor is standing uncertainly on the far side of the bed when he returns, his dress jacket, tie, and belt absent, the crisp sleeves of his white button down folded neatly above his elbows. Hank has to fight not to stare at Connor’s perfectly toned arms as he helps Hank make the bed.

“I hope it’s alright if I nap for a bit,” Hank says. Connor nods, murmuring a quiet “of course, Hank” as he steps around the bed and moves to leave. Hank catches his arm, distracted only for a moment by the soft warmth of Connor’s skin underneath his palm as he tilts his head to catch Connor’s eyes. Connor twists to face him, making no move to take Hank’s hand away.

“You’re free to choose, Connor,” Hank says quietly. “You can - uh, you don’t have to stay here. If you don’t want to.”

Connor’s shoulders drop from whatever tension he’d been holding in them. His lips quirk into a little grin, barely there but there all the same.

“If it’s alright with you,” he says quietly, “I’d rather stay. This is… the closest I have to a home.”

_Home._ This house hasn’t been home to Hank - pretty much ever. He moved here after Cole died to get away from the memories, only taking what small ones he could stand or hide away. Sumo made the place feel smaller, like a place he could exist with someone else and not feel like shooting himself if he had something that relied on him to live. But even with Connor only coming here one time before, it still felt like the closest thing he’s had to a home, too, with Connor’s tall frame finally clicking into all the jagged pieces Hank had carved unknowingly.

It _was_ a home. Now it was a place Hank wanted to be in, and not just to drink and convince himself not to take it too far. Connor did that, and if Connor wanted to stay, then Hank would do everything he could to keep it that way.

“Of course you can stay,” Hank says unsteadily. Connor stares at him, his smile never faltering. “Just promise you won’t get yourself kicked off the force, android rights or not.”

Connor’s grin turns toothy - a rare sight. “I won’t let you down.”

Hank nods. “Good. Now please don’t burn my house down while I sleep.”

Connor huffs a laugh. “I’m sure I can manage.”

Hank releases him and Connor turns out of the room, his shoes clicking quietly across the wood floor to the kitchen. Hank closes his door part way to allow Sumo in and out (and a way to listen for Connor should the android need help) before stripping down to his undershirt and boxers. He crawls into bed, wiggling under the clean sheets and blankets with a sigh. He hasn’t slept in over sixteen hours, his body beyond aching. Before he can think any more on the ridiculous amount of sleep he hasn’t been getting, the lights in the room switch off, and Hank drops off into sweet, blissful oblivion.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: its only been a week since hank and connor met. gotta take it slow  
> also me: its been a week full of protecting and fighting for each other just make it gay

“Connor, this is a fucking  _ novel.” _

Connor falters, his stare flicking from the neatly written list in Hank’s hand to his shoes. Hank tilts his head to see if his LED flickers to yellow, but it stays blue. Connor recovers quickly and fixes Hank with a cool stare.

“I included specific model and serial numbers should you get confused,” he explains in that matter-of-fact tone usually reserved for case observations. It hurts for him to use that voice with him, but Hank understands. “I am compatible with most equipment used for PM or PC series androids. Although all wireless chargers are universal, I would prefer a wired connection should I need to charge quickly, which would be specific to police-function androids.”

“Connor,” Hank sighs. He folds the list up as neatly as he can and stuffs it in his pocket. “Just come with me to the station and grab what you need. I’m not going to get this shit right the first time, and I won’t be responsible if I break you by hooking you up to the wrong fucking charging cable.”

The corner of Connor’s lips twitch down into a grimace. “It is highly unlikely you would “break” me by using any of the required equipment, and charging is only a necessity should I be injured and lose electrical charge along with Thirium.”

Hank sighs again, annoyed. “Just get in the car, smartass.”

The android does so, albeit with a slightly confused knot between his brows. Hank starts the car and backs out of the driveway, glimpsing at Connor when they turn onto the road towards the precinct. Connor doesn’t seem to notice, his gaze somewhere far away, his fingers smoothing over his quarter. Hank lets him be as he flips on the bluetooth paired to his phone, turning the volume down to a more acceptable level.

The streets are mostly empty, with the majority of evacuation traffic having disappeared sometime during the night. Those that stayed seemed to have holed themselves up in their homes, the midmorning traffic nonexistent except for a couple pedestrians walking to and from local coffee shops. The drive is consequently twenty minutes shorter than normal, and when they arrive, Hank leads Connor into the mostly dead precinct with something like dread sitting deep in his gut, something in him telling him this is was probably a  _ really _ bad idea. 

Which, as usual, his gut proves him right when they round the corner and find not only Fowler holding down the fort, but literally every human detective and officer in the precinct sitting around the center island of the bullpen. Hank stops in his tracks, Connor bumping into him from following too closely. He whispers a soft “sorry, Lieutenant” before stepping back a respectable distance. Hank raises his brow at him and shakes his head, a silent acceptance, and turns back to the bullpen, swallowing the lump forming in his throat. 

“Wow, I didn’t think you’d actually show up,” Chris says. His tone says he’s teasing, but Hank feels himself tense anyway, barely wheezing out a “Thanks” as he passes by Chris’ desk. 

“The fuck are you all doing down here?” Hank asks by way of greeting. Fowler stares at him cooly from across the island, his expression unreadable as his stare flicks over Hank’s shoulder to presumably glare at Connor. Hank feels himself instinctively step to the side to protect him. 

“Watching the place in case our friendly plastic pricks decide to try anything,” Reed says sarcastically. His eyes snap to Connor behind Hank, dark and accusing. 

“I assure you, I pose no threat. My -  _ living _ situation is uncertain, so we have come to acquire equipment to sustain me during stasis or in the event of injury and-or complete system failure,” Connor says. Hank turns a wry smile on him. He’s sure Connor is being obtuse on purpose. Connor flicks a grin his way but hides it quickly before anyone else can see it. 

“And you think you can just check that stuff out and go?” Reed hisses. “You guys get some air time on the news and think you’re special enough to ask for shit now?”

“That’s enough, asshole,” Hank growls. “You want me to come over there and show you how special  _ you  _ are?”

“Both of you, shut the hell up,” Fowler snaps. His voice booms throughout the otherwise empty bullpen, startling Chris from pouring a new cup of coffee at his desk and Wilson from organizing a stack of thick paper files. Other officers continue on with their tasks, trying not to seem like they’re listening. Reed snaps his jaw shut and crosses his arms defiantly, but doesn’t move or say anything else. 

Hank, on the other hand, advances on the group, his stare steady on Fowler. He hears Connor follow him, albeit slowly, his shoes making soft clicking noises on the tile as he moves. Hank stops just a few feet from the island, his heart thundering in his chest despite the resolve he feels in his gut. 

“Whether you like it or not, Connor is a person,” Hank says lowly, to none of them in particular. Wilson dips his head but the rest of them stare at him, Fowler glaring particularly hard. “And whether you like it or not, shit’s going to change around here. So I’d appreciate it if we could check out some equipment and be on our way.”

He can hear Connor try desperately to keep himself still, the rustle of his dress jacket a familiar sound even if he wasn’t wearing his uniform one. Hank had gone out early in the morning to find one that didn’t have the android badges emblazoned across the front and back, determined to allow Connor at least the simple freedom of not being picked out so easily. Reed’s stare snaps immediately to Connor again, and Hank can see then the bruises on his cheekbones and below the collar of his coat. Connor had said Reed had interrupted him during his search in the evidence locker, but now that he saw the evidence of just how well Connor had beaten him, it sent a bolt of pride up his spine. The fucker deserved to be put in his place, and it was only fitting Connor was the one to do that. 

Fowler catches Hank’s eyes, shifting only minutely in his seat to draw Hank’s attention. He holds up three fingers to him, his words emphasizing his gesture. 

“Three pieces of equipment,” he says. “A printer, a charger, and a console for stasis. They all have to be models currently not in use here at the precinct. I found out you took something I didn’t approve, I will  _ seriously _ have your badge, Hank.”

Hank feels the corner of his lips twitch into a smile but he fights it down. He turns partly away towards his desk, aiming to grab a few things from it before following Connor to the android charging bank. 

“Thank you,” he says by way of a parting. “We won’t be long.”

“Hank.”

Fowler’s tone keeps him in place. He holds Fowler’s stare, used to being at the other man’s mercy and wrath after so many years racking up disciplinary notes in his file. This is different, though - like Fowler is asking Hank if he’s truly sure this is what he wants. They haven’t been close since before Cole died, but it feels like it did then, like Hank could turn around right now and trust Fowler would back him up, piss-poor attitude notwithstanding. 

“Don’t mess this up,” Fowler says. “Last chance.”

He knows what Fowler means. He wants Hank to make the right choice and stick with it, to see it through no matter what it means. Not that Hank would let this end in failure - not by a long shot - but the sentiment is appreciated. Hank nods, the fight or flight instinct settling along his spine loosening with Fowler’s dismissive flick of his hand.

Hank turns to Connor, checking on him to see if any of Reed’s remarks had an effect. Connor’s jaw is set tightly and his LED flickers yellow, but otherwise his face is unreadable. As he nods to Hank and makes an about-face towards the android charging bank, Hank wonders if Connor was restraining himself from speaking. The thought niggles at him as he collects his spare keys to the station from his desk before returning to Connor.

Connor, in the meantime, had found an adequate charging dock along with its cable for wired charging and a sleek plasteel terminal for stasis monitoring. His LED is stuck on yellow still, but Hank figures now it was because he was cross-referencing each part with existing models used for the station androids and ones that were free and compatible with himself. The 3D printer was hard to snag, mostly because Connor required some specialized CPU components that other station androids didn’t have, but after ten minutes of Connor scanning and Hank standing by, dumbfounded, the 3D printer with the capabilities they needed was found. Connor hoisted the parts into a large duffel bag and slung it over his shoulder, seemingly unconcerned with the weight, and flashed a quick smile at Hank before gesturing to the door leading to the bullpen.

But because the universe hates them, Reed is waiting just outside the room when they leave. Connor is moving quickly enough that his shoulder clips Reed’s, and Reed, in a sudden burst of speed, reaches out before Hank or Connor can react and wraps his wide hand around Connor’s throat, forcing the android back against the wall. Connor’s duffel drops to the floor with a clatter of metal and plastic parts, and Hank - despite Fowler’s shout across the room to knock it off - grips Reed’s jacket in his hand, a snarl on his face and anger boiling up his throat.

“Let me go, Anderson,” Reed growls. His dark stare is turned on Hank, but his fingers tighten around Connor’s neck, causing the skin around them to melt away, revealing the shiny white plastic of Connor’s throat. Connor grunts, keeping his hands at his sides, stiffly standing on his toes to try and leverage Reed’s hand off of him with his height.

“I think we both know how this is going to end,” Hank says lowly. “Don’t make me punch your nose in farther than it already is.”

“I swear to God if you don’t stop that shit right fucking now,” Fowler barks. He’s standing a couple feet away, fists clenched at his sides. The other officers stare not so discreetly, eyes wide.

Reed doesn’t break eye contact with Hank, his stare cold and angry, but he does freeze at Fowler’s voice. He squeezes tighter on Connor’s throat, eliciting a painful hiss from between the android’s teeth. The interlocking pieces of Connor’s neck crunch under the pressure, a sickening grating of plastic on plastic as Connor’s LED blinks red and his hands shoot up to yank Reed’s arm away. Hank shoves Reed back in the same movement he catches Connor from falling to the floor, steadying him with hands on Connor’s shoulder and side.

Connor’s expression is pained as he brings his hands up to feel at the damage done to his throat. Hank hushes him when he grimaces, his own rougher fingers stroking lightly over the pieces under Connor’s skin as if to smooth the pain away. The skin slowly starts to repair itself, the leading edge of it glowing a soft white as Connor’s body self-repairs. Hank turns an angry glare on Reed, his hand itching to yank out his gun.

Fowler pins him with a glare and shakes his head. Reed scoffs, looking between the three of them, incredulously glancing back at Fowler as if expecting him to reprimand Hank and Connor.

“That stupid machine knocks me out last night and I don’t get a bit of payback?” Reed shakes his head. “It’s lucky I don’t rip out it’s thirium regulator and leave it for dead for good this time.”

“He,” Hank snaps. Connor stiffens in his arms, LED still spinning red, his face unreadable as his hand still cradles his neck. Hank flicks his eyes back to Reed, voice level. “Not it. Him.”

Reed stares at him, surprise unattractive on his features. Fowler glares at him and points to his desk nearby, ordering without saying anything. Reed obeys only after looking Connor up and down, assessing with a look Hank doesn’t like. Fowler gestures to the duffel at Connor’s feet, the look on his face almost soft.

“Send me the model and serial numbers later so I can write them off as used by another android,” he says. Connor slips out of Hank’s hands, nodding minutely as he leans down and picks up the bag. Fowler nods once and turns back to Hank.

“Go home. Get rest. Let all this settle down over the weekend.” 

Hank nods slowly, trying not to let the surprise show on his face. Either Fowler is toying with him or he’s being sincere, and he doesn’t know which is worse. Fowler has shown disdain for Connor nearly constantly since he arrived at the station a little over a week ago, and it’s hard for Hank to imagine he feels anything other than anger or contempt for him since the events the night before. Fowler has always been cold towards androids - why would he have any reason to change his mind now?

Instead of trying to unravel his friend’s motives any further, Hank pats Connor’s back and leads the way out of the precinct. Fresh snow blankets the ground, flecking their coats and hair, crunching softly under their shoes as they file into the covered parking structure attached to the station

Hank pops the trunk for Connor to put his things in, but doesn’t move to get into the driver’s seat. He waits patiently for the android to unzip the bag and take stock, assessing the damage his things sustained, if any. He seems satisfied and zips up the bag and gently closes the trunk, his expression pinched in confusion. 

“You okay?” Hank asks softly, gesturing to his throat. He tries not to let the anger show on his face. 

Connor’s brow smoothes minutely, his eyes catching Hank’s, suddenly looking less far away. “Yes. Pieces 6203 and 6126 were pinched and slid out of place, but were realigned when the pressure was released.” He stops, his frown deepening. “It… hurt.”

Hank nods. Connor’s been shot more than a handful of times now, and punched and thrown around. But that was before being awake. Hank could guess that now Connor was fully aware, parts of him that were usually off or more controlled were starting to make themselves known. Pain was a part of his life now.

“Don’t think too much about it,” Hank says. “He’s probably still wound up from the beat down you gave him last night. Good shit, by the way.”

Connor’s frown lifts, smiling just that little bit that brightens his eyes. It melts Hank’s heart. 

“Thank you,” Connor says. “I didn’t want to, but I admit that after he was unconscious I… felt good. Like I finally had a weight off my back.”

“Probably because he’s done nothing but order you around since you got here. Serves him right.” 

Connor’s grin turns dopey, an expression he doesn’t wear often. Hank smiles back, squeezing Connor on the arm, and turns towards the car and gets in. Connor follows him, folding his long legs into the passenger seat, his stare immediately out the window as Hank starts the car and backs out of the parking space. Hank wonders what he’s thinking about - whether it was Reed or something to do with the revolution - but again lets him be, letting Connor have this time to himself. 

When they get home, Connor sets the duffel on the couch and unloads it, setting the charger, printer, and terminal on the coffee table along with their respective cords. He motions for Hank to sit down, taking his place next to him when he does, reaching for the terminal first.

“You will not have to do much with any of these if things go smoothly,” Connor starts. The skin on his right hand peels away, revealing the white metal and plastic of his hand. He presses his palm to the terminal’s face, turning it on. “When in stasis, this is mostly for you to see what I am doing, whether that be repairs or updates. If something should happen to me, my memories will be stored on this instead of Cyberlife’s servers, so that reactivation is easier.”

Hank huffs. “Just don’t go killing yourself as you please. We have to replace parts now, not upload your brain to a new body. I’m not sure we can even get one now.”

Connor nods, allowing the distinction with a small smile. “Hence the printer. It unfolds to allow printing of whole limbs or small parts, so that should not be a problem, either.” 

He seems happier and more animated here away from the precinct, even though Hank knows he enjoys the work he does. It’s probably just the air of being at work that keeps him quiet, something inside him still defaulting to being subservient when around people not afraid to use their authority over him. Hank appreciates that Connor feels safe here and around him, but something else still pulls at him, remnants of anger at Reed prickling under his skin.

“Connor,” Hank starts. Connor stops whatever explanation he was giving. Connor turns, pinning his full attention on Hank.

“If that shit happens again,” Hank says, “you knock the daylights right out of Reed. Or anyone doing that to you. You understand?”

Connor blinks, then shakes his head. “It would only -“

“No. You defend yourself. You’re a person, Connor, not a thing to be pushed around.”

He doesn’t know why he’s trying to explain this, especially considering Connor is more than capable of hurting or even killing those that attempt to attack him. Something in him rears its ugly head at the thought of someone trying anything with Connor, something defensive that he’s starting to come to terms with. The few times Connor has been hurt, Hank had to force himself to protect Connor first before retaliating, every muscle inside him screaming to move and strike back, his vision going red. Usually, the android was supposed to take the hit for humans, a disposable shield to be destroyed to protect more valuable lives. Now, Hank doesn’t know what he’d do if Connor got really hurt. 

Connor’s stare slips from Hank’s face to his hands, his eyes searching. Hank, in a stroke of confidence he doesn’t feel, reaches out and takes Connor’s hand. His palm is soft and warm, a stark contrast to Hank’s more worn, callused fingers. Connor doesn’t seem to care, his fingers intertwining with Hank’s, his expression turning soft and confused as he looks back up at Hank.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. Hank nods, unable to speak past the lump in his throat. Connor makes an aborted motion towards him, his LED quickly cycling between yellow and blue, and Hank wonders if Connor was struggling with the signs of affection or with something else entirely. His face smoothes over with a smile though, and before Hank can say anything he’s standing, gathering the terminal and charger and walking away.

Hank struggles to get his brain to cooperate, every part of him questioning why in the fuck he just did that. Sure, he cares about Connor, but that was - different. Connor’s soft eyes and the feeling of his hand in his own stirred something in him he hasn’t felt in a long time, and instead of burying it under the grief and resentment he holds for the world, he lets it be. Closing Connor off would do nothing but hurt them both. Hank sighs, resigned to whatever the fuck he’s gotten himself into, and follows Connor into his room, watching as the android sets up the terminal on the bedside table on his side of the bed. He tries not to stare at Connor’s hands, but knows before he can even try that he won’t be able to stop himself. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am once again up until 2am writing for this stupid pairing. also, this is soon going to kick into high gear and become a case-fic

Of course, as soon as Connor settles in, Hank starts to notice just how much of a mess his house was. 

He lived in a nice house, with a backyard for Sumo and a garage that he stuffed everything extra he owned because he didn’t want the hassle of a storage unit. But he conceded - begrudgingly - that he didn’t exactly try and keep the place clean. He did dishes when they piled up and only loaded the washing machine when he was out of pants, and when he did a cursory sweep around the house to clear dog hair and whatever the fuck else off his floor to make room for Connor’s printer, he noticed just how long he’d gone without cleaning. When Connor commented the third night in a row about Hank’s eating habits, Hank decides to bite the bullet and actually clean the house for the first time in months. 

“I could assist you,” Connor chirps, patiently sitting at the kitchen table as Hank rinses dishes and loads the dishwasher. Hank gives him a look telling him to stay put, huffing as Connor smiles at him pleasantly. 

“It’s about time I started to take care of this place,” Hank says. Connor stands anyway, making a circuit around the living room, collecting plates and glasses before setting them next to the sink for Hank to load. Hank glares at him. “Seriously, Connor. I got it.”

“I am not a household assistant model -” Connor stops, catching himself. His grin is sheepish when Hank turns to raise a brow at him. “I mean… I am not equipped to help around the house. I - I really want to help, though. If I am to live here, I think it prudent to at least have a daily list.”

Hank groans, running his hand over his face. It’s not that he wants to do all the housework himself - he really doesn’t - but with Connor never having even  _ done  _ a chore in his life, he’s loathe to try and teach the poor kid anything. 

Besides, it hit just a little too close to  _ using _ Connor. He wasn’t a slave to whip around the house when Hank didn’t feel like doing his own damn laundry, even if he did want to help. Hank glances at Connor, at his expectant eyes and slightly upturned lips. He sighs, giving in, and gestures towards the broom. 

“Fine,” Hank says. “Knock yourself out.”

Connor’s LED blinks yellow, his brow twisting in confusion. “Why would I do that?”

“ _ Connor _ . It’s a figure of speech. I meant you could sweep.”

“Oh,” Connor says. He takes the broom in his hands and turns down the hall, disappearing into the bathroom. Hank stops, waiting to see what the hell Connor is up to. Relief floods him when Connor reappears, sweeping whatever that was in the bathroom into a neat pile in the middle of the hallway before starting around the edges of the rest of the house. When he gets to the kitchen and notices Hank staring at him, he smiles, straightening.

“I downloaded a set of AX400 software,” Connor explains. “How to cook and clean, among other things.” He gestures to the broom, suddenly timid. “It’s… probably ridiculous to you that I don’t know how to do any of this without finding software to help me.”

Hank snorts. It’s not what he expected, but it’s cute nonetheless. “You were designed to be a detective, right? Makes sense they wouldn’t put how much laundry soap to use in that big processor of yours if it wouldn’t help you catch deviants.”

Connor nods, snapping into investigation mode again, his voice even and words precise. “Yes. Cyberlife designed androids for specific tasks, with little overlapping between any model. My model is advanced, but I was not intended for housework.”

“Yeah, I know that,” Hank says, aiming for his tone to be soothing and probably missing the mark. Connor relaxes anyway, nodding again and resuming his task. Hank watches him finish, pointing between the fridge and counter when he throws a quizzical look at Hank with the broom and dustpan in his hand. He clasps the dustpan to the broom’s handle and slides it to where Hank wants it, then turns and disappears down the hallway again.

Hank raises a brow, looking after him. What the hell is he doing now?

“Connor,” Hank says, a note of warning in his voice. “You gonna tell me what you’re up to?”

“Laundry,” Connor shouts back. Hank grimaces - he hopes he didn’t leave too much work for him, or, God forbid, Connor tries to  _ lick _ anything - but leaves him be, finishing the dishwasher and starting on emptying the fridge. Connor gave him hell before about his eating habits, and if the android wants to stick around, might as well make him less agitated every time Hank wants to eat. 

Besides, maybe now with someone around the house, Hank will feel less like self destructing. He hasn’t had the urge to drink as much lately (or all the time, but that’s besides the point) beyond the occasional beer with dinner, and for the past couple days, he’s hardly even looked at his gun. The sick, dark, depressive feeling in his stomach hasn’t returned since that night Connor found him passed out, and while Hank doesn’t want to chalk it all up to Connor, he admits having the android around makes him feel less loathing for his existence as a whole. 

Which, yeah, it’s nice. It still hurts, being alive, but with Connor - who  _ really  _ wants to live - he can’t find a reason to end it, quickly or slowly. Not when Connor needs him. 

Sumo picks that moment to flop his big head in Hank’s lap when he sits on the couch, his big brown eyes staring up at Hank, begging for attention. Hank scrubs behind his ears, uncaring as his dog starts to drool all over his jeans, the feel of his fur between his fingers a comfort.

“I know you need me too, boy,” Hank murmurs to Sumo, scrunching up his face as he pets him. Sumo’s tail starts thumping against the floor, a rhythm that calms Hank. 

Connor reappears from the laundry room, cradling a basket against his hip. Sumo’s ears perk as he sets the basket in the arm chair and starts folding, getting up altogether when Connor doesn’t notice him. He sticks his nose between Connor’s thighs, startling the android as he shoves his face between Connor’s legs, softly woofing for attention. Hank tries to hold in the guffaw in his throat and fails, causing Connor to jump again as he steps around Sumo to bend down and pet him.

“Sorry,” Hank wheezes. Connor’s confused expression melts away into amusement, his fingers carding through Sumo’s fur to the dog’s delight. “Should have warned you not to ignore him.”

Connor makes an “oh” face, his brows raised and lips parted. He turns his attention to Sumo, smooshing the dog’s face in his palms as he adopts a higher pitch in his voice, something akin to baby-speak but Hank’s not sure where Connor learned it. Hank, probably, but he doesn’t want to admit he baby-talks his damn dog. 

“I’m sorry for ignoring you,” Connor says to Sumo. “It was unintentional. It will never happen again.”

Sumo licks his face before Hank can tell him to watch out. Connor rears back onto his heels, face pinched, LED turning yellow. Hank can’t help but snort out another laugh - Connor is so cool and composed during cases that it’s almost jarring to see him react in a way that isn’t mild annoyance with weird human colloquials or Hank yelling at him for licking things. Hank digs in his back pocket and pulls out his handkerchief, holding it out for Connor to use on his face. Connor takes it graciously and pats Sumo one last time before standing and scrubbing his face. 

Hank suddenly gets an idea. He gets up and takes Sumo’s leash from the coat hanger behind the front door and holds it out to Connor, hushing Sumo’s whine when he sees it.

“You could take him for walks,” Hank says. Connor smiles, taking the leash. “I mean, you don’t have to now, but it’d be a good idea for him to get exercise from time to time.”

Which he should get some too, but the elated grin on Connor’s face shuts him up before he can compromise himself. Connor folds the handkerchief and holds it out but Hank shakes his head.

“You can keep it. Who knows, maybe it’ll come in handy when you get shot,” Hank says sarcastically. Connor smiles, but it’s more serious than the joke needs. 

“Thank you, Hank,” Connor murmurs. He pockets the gift and leans down to Sumo again, his eyes soft as he clips the leash to his collar and stands again. “If it’s alright, I would like to walk him. I won’t be long.”

Hank shrugs one shoulder, putting his hands in his pockets. “You have my cell phone number. Anything happens, call me. Take all the time you need and be safe.”

For some reason, a sense of pride settles in his gut along with a warm, fluttery feeling that he hasn’t felt for a long time as Connor nods earnestly and steps outside with Sumo. He frowns, trying to place the feeling as he sweeps a glance across the house, taking in its tidier appearance. Sometime during the day Connor had dug out a scented wax melter Hank doesn’t remember owning and plugged it in next to the kitchen sink, flooding the living room and kitchen with the scent of clean linen. The small gesture only intensifies the warmth crawling up his throat, an unexplained heat that he doesn’t want to pin down in case it is what he thinks it is. 

He decides to shove it down, burying it under his ribs to think about later. He enters the laundry room, taking in the neatly sorted piles of clothes sitting in their respective hampers next to the washer as it churns away. Hank huffs then opens the door into the garage, catching a glimpse of something shiny in the near corner past the treadmill and sit-up bench dusty with disuse. 

When he turns to get a better look at it, angling past boxes piled on top of each other and the rolling toolbox one of the guys from the precinct bought him as a birthday gift the previous year, he recognizes it as the portable charger Connor got the other day. It was small when Connor took it out of the duffel, but now it was unfolded, its long arms extending upwards from an inch thick circular base. The arms are probably just as tall as Connor is, thin and pulsing slowly with blue light as it idles. A cord with a barbed end - the direct charging cable - hangs on one of the arms, twisted around it so it doesn’t tangle with the treadmill right next to it. 

Hank frowns. He didn’t intend to stuff Connor into a corner when he needed to access his charger, but now that he looks around his crowded garage, he realizes the android had no real choice. Or he just wanted to be out of Hank’s way, which rubs him the wrong way even worse. So Hank sighs and rolls up his sleeves despite the chill in the garage and starts moving boxes, setting aside those to throw away, donate, or keep, busying himself with the work to stamp down the guilt settling over the heat in his stomach.

No way was he going to burden Connor with those feelings, not when he was still so new to having free will. Baby steps, Hank said to himself, and maybe he would get over what he begrudgingly would call a  _ crush  _ (God, what was he, sixteen? This couldn’t be real) on Connor, and they could continue on with their existence without  _ that _ burden. 

But, because things never work in Hank’s favor practically ever, the thought never leaves his mind no matter how much work he does, and it sits with him the whole hour and fifteen minutes it takes him to sort through his shit in the garage. Connor returns sometime halfway through, his smile turning timid as he pokes his head into the garage to tell Hank he’s home. Hank knows he notices the path Hank cleared to the charger by the little crinkle around Connor’s eyes, thankful, at least, that Connor doesn’t say anything about it. He tells Connor to just relax and find something  _ he _ wants to do, relieved the android finally listens to him for once. When he leaves, Hank pushes himself to work quicker to forget the way snow had collected in little flecks on Connor’s eyelashes, accentuating just how long they were, noticeable to Hank even across the fucking room.

“Fucking androids,” Hank grunts as he hefts aside a toolbag he never bothered to empty some time he doesn’t remember. But his choice of language makes him think about other things concerning androids, so Hank shuts that thought down quickly, deigning to prop his phone up on top of a short pile of keep boxes and blare music he can’t stand to drown out everything buzzing in his brain. 

It works, for a time. It’s not silence, but when Hank finishes up, panting and having worked up an uncomfortable sweat that feels disgusting against the cold of the room, he’s happy with the work he’s done. Connor can freely get to the charger, and there’s significantly more room now that he’s organized everything. He even folded down the belt for the treadmill in the event he might actually use the stupid thing, and for once in his life he feels like maybe things might be looking up. 

He returns to the living room and spots Connor curled up on the couch, his LED cycling blue as he rests with his eyes closed, long legs folded up part way to allow room on the other end for Hank, one arm dangling over the side to curl his fingers into Sumo’s fur. The sight settles his angry, confused heart, and yeah, maybe things will really be okay. 

He sighs and sits at Connor’s feet, thankful the movement doesn’t seem to disturb him. Like this, he doesn’t know how they couldn’t be.

 

1010101

On Sunday, five days after they went to the precinct for Connor’s equipment, Connor finally takes up Hank’s offer to sleep on the other side of the bed. 

Connor’s excuse for not doing so earlier is lousy at best. Connor takes this time while Hank eats to teach Sumo how to properly sit and lay down, usually because the potential reward for human food gets Hank’s idiot dog to listen better. Tonight, though, Connor doesn’t stick to his usual routine, instead opting for sitting quietly, fiddling with his quarter as Hank eats and watches the basketball game at the same time, the silence between them not uncomfortable but not necessarily as easy as it usually is. 

Hank notices immediately. He lets Connor be for a few minutes, studying Connor’s face as he stares at nothing, eyes down but not seeing his hands moving his coin between his long fingers. Hank likes his hands, how steady they are despite the uncertainty he knows the android must be feeling if he’s this quiet during the time of night he’s usually so focused and animated. He’s seen the interlocking pieces of Connor’s hands underneath the false skin, but it doesn’t make them look or feel less real. After watching Connor perform his rolling finger trick with the quarter the third time in two minutes, Hank gently takes the coin away and sets it aside, drawing Connor’s attention to him almost immediately, startled.  

“Sorry,” Connor murmurs. “I didn’t realize I was annoying you with it.”

Hank wrinkles his brow, shaking his head. Connor could be so dense, sometimes. 

“No, it’s not that,” Hank says. “Trust me, the quarter is not the issue here.”

“Is it something else I did?”

“Not - no, not really. It’s more like something you’re not doing.”

Connor’s face twists in confusion, LED suddenly spinning yellow. “Should I be? I don’t eat, and I’ve been listening to the basketball game. The Pistons have the upper hand, although I suspect from the last foul that they might need to -”

“Connor,” Hank interrupts. Connor’s jaw snaps shut, LED still yellow. “I mean you’re not playing with Sumo, or really doing anything you usually do at dinner.” He catches Connor’s eyes, softening his tone. “Something the matter?”

He reaches out and places his hand on Connor’s bare forearm, hoping the physical comfort will ground Connor. Connor watches him, allowing the touch, the muscles under Hank’s hand twitching with the contact. He stares at Hank, something behind his eyes clicking into place. 

“Would it be alright if I sleep next to you tonight?” he asks. 

Hank raises a brow, slack jawed. 

“Connor, I literally told you that the offer was open the first day you got here,” he says incredulously. “There’s no need to ask.”

Connor’s mouth twists in the way it does when he’s not quite satisfied with an answer. “Yes, but I’ve intruded enough, and I’ve noticed you tend to be territorial about your bed with Sumo. I didn’t want to infringe on space you’d rather have to yourself.”

Hank sighs. Seriously? “If you need to rest, you can. Like I said, I’m not kicking you to the couch. I’m not  _ that _ rude.” He takes a bite of his food, thankful for the distraction from the warmth coiling in his gut again. “Besides,” he says, speaking through his bite, “Sumo sheds. I think it’s safe to assume you don’t.”

“No. I can grow back my hair should something happen, but it will not fall out from resting on something for extended periods of time.”

Hank sighs again, opening his mouth to counter, but when he looks back to Connor, the android is smiling. Hank smacks his arm and shakes his head, only a little bit miffed Connor managed to tease him without him noticing. Connor’s smile widens, toothy and bright - Hank can’t help but grin back, Connor’s joy infectious. 

The rest of dinner is spent with Connor trying to teach Sumo to sit again as Hank finishes his food. A calm settles over him, thankful that he could navigate Connor’s confusing maze of emotions once again. It’s easier to focus with Connor stable and enjoying himself, but the looming thought of later having him laying next to him in bed sits in Hank’s head like a rock, heavy and  _ there _ no matter how hard Hank tries to shove it away. Hank rinses his dishes and sets them in the dishwasher, pressing the start button on its interface once he’s loaded it with soap and closed it. Connor crawls to the floor and crosses his legs in front of Sumo as Hank collapses on the couch to finish the game, a knot between the android’s perfect brows, his LED spinning yellow as he attempts to teach Hank’s stupid dog how to shake. 

Hank barely pays attention to the television as Connor tries - and fails - to entice Sumo into obeying. He uses dog treats, lunchmeat, the leash, and copious amounts of belly scratches as rewards, giving in to Sumo’s whines for attention even when he tries to use the sternest voice he can muster to get Sumo to listen. It’s cute to watch, mostly because Sumo is an older dog and really doesn’t feel like doing much besides what he wants and Connor is so determined to break him of it. A part of Hank sees the parallel between himself and his dog - both stuck in their ways, old and resigned to the world with Connor young and eager to bend them to something new. 

But Connor’s eagerness fades away as the night draws to a close. He follows Hank into the bedroom after assuring himself the house is locked and Sumo is adequately placated, LED  _ still _ yellow, the knot between his brows deeper than ever. Hank notices but lets the android be, flipping down the blankets and settling into bed, making sure his alarm is set before relaxing back into his pillow. 

Connor watches, likely studying how to properly get into bed, then fetches his pajamas from his side of the closet. He leaves the room to change in the bathroom, gone only for a minute, returning with his dress jacket, belt, and shoes. He places them in the closet neatly, then turns towards the terminal next to his side of the bed, the skin of his left hand peeling away as he presses his palm to it. 

Hank watches quietly as the terminal beeps several times and Connor stiffens - only minutely, but Hank knows him well enough to catch it. Connor retracts his hand and climbs into bed, mimicking Hank, drawing the covers up to his chest and letting himself rest. 

Hank snorts. “That the first time you’ve willingly laid down?”

He can’t help himself. The whole ordeal was amusing, and it must show on his face because Connor’s confused smile widens into self-depreciating amusement. 

“Uh, yes,” Connor says. “But it’s… nice.” He seems to search for the right words, eyes flicking across Hank’s face as the android shifts onto his left side to face him more fully. “It’s more comfortable than I thought.”

Hank shrugs, the movement somewhat lost from his position on the bed. “Yeah. Better than the couch, at least.”

“I don’t know. Sumo keeps me company on the couch.”

Hank’s grin falters. “I know I’m an asshole, but really? My  _ dog _ is better company?”

He realizes only after the words leave his mouth that the glint in Connor’s eyes isn’t a reflection of the light - it’s amusement. He tricked Hank again, twice now in the same night. Hank huffs a laugh, the anger under his skin boiling away quickly as Connor’s tiny smile turns into a laugh. He doesn’t laugh often, but the sound is nice, and Hank can’t begrudge him that it’s at his expense. 

“Just get some sleep,” Hank says. Connor laughs again, rolling onto his back again as Hank turns to flick off the bedside lamp. The room falls into darkness except for the pulsing of Connor’s LED casting a soft blue glow across the far side of the room. Hank settles into a more comfortable position and closes his eyes, willing himself to relax, trying not to be too aware of Connor just a few inches to his right. 

“Goodnight, Hank,” Connor says softly. Hank blinks his eyes open, glancing towards the android to his right. He opens his mouth to say it back, but the blue glow from Connor’s LED flickers from yellow to red and stays there, drying up Hank’s throat. He’s afraid something is wrong until the terminal drones in a smooth female voice, “RK800 serial number 313 248 317 dash 51 now in stasis;  preparing memory upload and software repair; estimated time until full CPU patch: six hours, eighteen minutes.” 

It’s unsettling to say the least, but Hank relaxes anyway. At least Connor will get the same amount of rest as Hank does - he would feel bad if Connor woke up and started his day before Hank did, even though up until this point he spent his nights in the living room, quietly reading or whatever the hell he does while Hank sleeps. When Hank partially sits up to get a better look at Connor, he’s even more relieved to find Connor’s eyes closed, his chest moving up and down slowly as he continues to run his simulated breathing program even in stasis. It feels less like Hank is sleeping next to a lifeless body, so Hank settles back into the sheets, content, letting sleep find him easily. 

The quiet chirp of the terminal wakes him some time in the early morning with its announcement that Connor’s software repairs are finished, but he doesn’t bother getting up, too tired to bother mustering up his brain to focus too much on his surroundings. He does feel Connor almost get out of bed then think better of it - he doesn’t know why, but his sleep-addled brain appreciates it. The small comfort of having Connor resting next to him, no matter how awake (or bored) the android was, settled the ball of anxiety in his gut, letting him fall back into sleep easier than he ever has before. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cut to an image of me lying dead in a ditch  
> i love all of you and the response to this has been amazing. ill try to keep this interesting but if theres issues such as spelling or grammar errors let me know!!

The next morning, on Tuesday, President Warren lifts the evacuation in Detroit and announces the Synthetic Life Act, a precursor to a twenty-eighth amendment currently being worked on in the senate. Connor reads the Act aloud while Warren gives her speech live on television, and while Hank had been expecting the worst, he’s actually surprised at how much the senate managed to turn things around.

The Act, while short, lists that all currently operating - no matter how damaged - androids are considered sentient and therefore alive, with all proceeding androids, should more be created, be considered sentient as well. All androids were to be released from Cyberlife’s ownership, programming instructions, and any server links they may hold, and any ownership people have on their androids was now null. Cyberlife is ordered to pay back the full amount of money each person spent on their android, and to send stipends of a living wage to each android to live off of for two years while a more advanced working android act could be developed. 

It doesn’t say anything about voting or other rights, but Warren verbally assures that all rights granted to humans have been and will be granted to androids. A surprising turn of events given her alleged connection to Cyberlife, but Connor doesn’t really seem to care - he stares at the television as the broadcast continues, eyes unseeing, unnaturally still.

Hank reaches across the small space between them to touch Connor’s shoulder, careful not to startle him as his fingers curl over the pressed fabric of his button-down shirt. Connor turns to face Hank with fear and surprise and excitement roiling in his eyes. Hank raises a brow, grinning.

“How does it feel to be a lawfully recognized person?” Hank asks quietly.

The drone of the television continues on in the background as Connor searches for words. He looks everywhere, his gaze flicking from Sumo to the television to anything else that catches his interest around the room. The clock above the fireplace ticks by, counting the seconds until finally Connor works his jaw and draws a breath to speak.

“I suppose I thought it would be more profound?” he says at length. Hank tilts his head, his own thoughts churning as Connor catches his stare. “Maybe something akin to that night during the revolution, when I brought the other androids from Cyberlife. Like it’s this big momentous occasion instead of sitting on the couch in the mid-morning after breakfast.”

Hank laughs quietly. “Maybe that’s how it’s always been. Sitting somewhere unexpected as the world moves around you.”

He doesn’t mean to wax poetic, but the grin on Connor’s face is enough for him to shrug off the uncomfortable feeling of progress literally chugging on as they watch. Not to say they didn’t have a direct hand it in - Connor literally bled and broke his chains for this. But watching something as historic as a whole people being granted legal sentience while they lounge in Hank’s living room isn’t exactly how Hank thought it would play out. He thought he'd be long dead before any of this would happen, if at all. It’s not so surprising then that the weird twisting feeling of uncertainty is shared between him and his partner.

Connor drops it, seemingly satisfied with Hank’s answer as he stands up and moves to clip Sumo’s leash to his collar and lead him to the door. Hank catches his hand as he moves past the back of the couch, stopping Connor in his tracks as he turns to lift a brow at Hank.

“You gonna be okay?” Hank asks. Connor’s face twists, confusion drawing his lips down. “I mean, this is kind of a big deal, kid.”

Understanding smoothes Connor’s handsome features. He smiles a small smile and nods, gripping Hank’s hand in his own, his warm skin a comfort to Hank’s miasmic thoughts clouding his head. 

“I am, Hank. Thank you. I just… would like a moment to reflect. If that’s alright.”

Hank nods. He thinks maybe if he was in Connor’s shoes, he’d want a moment alone with the world, too. 

“Yeah, Connor. Just keep safe.”

Connor nods, his grin turning amused. They both know he can take care of himself - even with his penchant with getting shot - but Hank can tell the sentiment is appreciated. Connor quietly slips outside into the morning, snow gently falling from the sky, coating everything in a fresh layer of powdery white. Hank watches him go, then turns back to the television, the screen blinking away to political analysts now that President Warren’s speech is over. 

Images flicker by of Markus’ revolution the week before, his peaceful march towards the destruction camps and his placidness in the face of impending death. Hank had been retreating back to the precinct after helping Connor at Cyberlife during that time, listening to Connor’s march and Markus’ singing over the comms as he drove. He remembers that night only in sounds, so seeing video of it all - of the sheer immensity of what he had a hand in creating - nearly sets him at ease.

And then the newscasters flip to images of the revolution, more high quality than the grainy helicopter video they’d been playing so far. Hank watches as a slideshow plays, pictures of the destruction camps bristling with soldiers blinking by into more intimate shots of Markus and the other androids as they sit in the frozen street, legs crossed, staring ahead with resolve. It moves into more images of the military push, beginning with a photo of Markus and Perkins standing several feet apart, facing each other, the lights of the city bright behind them as Markus stares resolutely ahead, Perkins’ grin sleazy as he stares back.

Hank bristles at the sight of him, taking little solace in the obvious dark bruise under Perkins’ eye, evidence of Hank roughing him up as a distraction for Connor. But as soon as the anger in him starts to boil, it evaporates as the program continues, the newscaster’s droning voice falling away as pictures of Connor start to roll near the end.

He’s hurt, shot in the shoulder from the other Connor when he’d rushed to get him away from Hank. Blue blood seeps from his wound, soaking his jacket, glittering in the cold as he marches towards Markus with the Cyberlife androids behind him. Several more pictures roll by of him, all of them capturing his head held high, a small smile upturning the corner of his lips, brown eyes fierce and determined. The last photo of the presentation before it all falls away to commercials is Connor standing tall in front of Markus, his jacket whipping in the wind, a sea of white bodies behind him and the future staring ahead of him. 

It’s the most beautiful thing Hank has ever seen. Connor is so tall and proud in the picture that it’s hard for Hank to reconcile it with what he knows Connor feels about the whole thing, his uncertainty and confusion stemming from his lack of understanding on his newly gained freedom. Connor fought so fiercely that night to survive and  _ live,  _ even killing for it so he and Markus would succeed. It’s hard to believe now that he wants little to do with the process of actually securing that freedom, no matter now easily it seems to be coming to him.

Hank supposes that maybe Connor feels out of place next to Markus and North. The other two androids defected early, with their fight for life a process that cost them much in the short time it took for them to rise up. Connor, however, struggled with his deviancy, showing signs early but never truly breaking away from his programming until the night he infiltrated Cyberlife. Hank had seen the change in him since they met: at first it was little things, his soft voice when dealing with the deviants they captured and his compassion for trying to save them even though it went against his mission. He was always deviant, but he was also a man who loved what he did and wanted to make a difference in his work. 

Maybe they weren’t so different after all, then. Besides, if Connor was off shaking hands with the president and making laws that would change the course of history forever, Hank isn’t sure what he’d do with himself.

Drink, probably. More than he ever did before. Cole’s death still ate him, a gnawing that would maybe never go away. But if Connor was gone? No. Hank didn’t want to think about it.

Connor returns a little over an hour later, his cheeks ruddy and a smile on his face. Snow dusts the shoulders of his jacket and sticks in his hair, catching light from outside as he enters the house and leans down to unleash Sumo. Sumo bounds into the house towards his food bowl, all limitless energy, but Hank doesn’t pay him mind, his eyes glued to Connor. Connor catches his stare, his smile turning small and shy. 

“Sorry,” Connor says nervously. “I think the walk did the opposite effect of what it’s supposed to do.”

Hank shakes his head, murmuring “no problem”, unable to take his eyes off the blush on the android’s cheeks. Was that always possible? He knew domestic and civilian androids could blush - reaction to heat and cold was supposed to make them more life-like - but even with as advanced as Connor was,  _ blushing _ didn’t seem like a reaction they would develop and program for a prototype detective android. 

“Could you always do that?” Hank asks dumbly, his brain not bothering to filter whatever comes out of his stupid mouth. Connor catches his eyes, his brow arching as a quizzical look crosses his face. 

“Do what?” 

Fuck. Hank couldn’t back out of this now. He gestures to his own face, trying to catch up with his own thoughts. “Blush. Er, have a reaction to cold, I mean. From the cold.”

Connor’s brow arches further. He turns to face the mirror on the bookcase behind the couch, inspecting himself, turning his face this way and that. He seems to realize what Hank is saying and shakes his head, still confused. 

“I don’t know,” he says quietly. “Maybe I always could, but now that my programming is broken, things I didn’t know about myself will start surfacing.” He turns an alarmed look on Hank, eyes suddenly wide. “Is this a bad thing?”

Hank chokes out a negative, trying to find somewhere to put his hands and settling for crossing his arms. 

“No! No. I just, uh. Noticed it for the first time, is all. I was wondering if that meant you were cold.”

Connor smiles minutely. “Only in extreme temperatures, but thank you for thinking about my wellbeing. My biocomponents only start to malfunction below sub-zero temperatures, and my core CPU is not affected by the cold. So while I might start to die from thirium freezing or artificial organ failure, my core personality and memories will survive any cold temperatures should they get wet.”

Hank snorts at the overly-specific explanation. “Good to know we can bring you back from frostbite.”

Connor doesn’t really giggle, but it’s the closest thing Hank can describe the sound Connor makes at the joke. His cheeks are red now from something else that Hank can’t place in his expression as he shyly steps aside Hank and goes to put his damp clothes in the washer. The way Connor’s lips had upturned as he laughed sticks with him for the rest of the night, haunting him even when they retire to bed. 

He’s doomed. He knows he is. He just wonders how long he can keep this under wraps before Connor starts to notice. 

 

1010101

 

In a rare stroke of luck, President Warren announces the Fair Labor and Compensation Act the next morning. It’s basically a long-winded document saying androids are entitled to equal compensation for the same jobs humans do - which as far as Connor’s concerned, means he now makes around $56,000 a year. Hank wishes he could have stepped into his job at the beginning making that much, but when they go to open a bank account early in the morning and find that two paychecks are already deposited, he can’t find it in himself to be angry about it. 

Connor deserves it for being treated like an object for as long as he did. Even if he doesn’t know what to do with it, the dumbfounded look on his face says enough - that never in Connor’s short existence did he think he’d get  _ paid _ to do what he loved. Hank would’ve taken him out for ice cream if he ate, but instead he gets Connor in the car after finishing at the bank and takes them to the precinct. 

“We’re being called back in?” Connor asks in surprise when his brain catches on to where they’re going. He whips around to pin Hank with a bewildered stare, practically vibrating in his seat with excitement. 

Hank laughs, waving at him to calm him down. “Yeah, kid. Got the call this morning. We are officially back to detective work.”

If it were possible, Connor would have launched out of his seat right then. Hank watches as it takes every ounce of the android’s control to not sprint inside as they walk briskly towards the station, more than amused that Connor is so eager to get back to work. It also hurts that he’s been so long without doing what he truly wants to do - Hank enjoyed the normalcy of the two of them learning to live with each other, that was without a doubt. But he sees how much it means to Connor to help, even if it means trudging through disgusting crime scene after disgusting crime scene. 

It’s what he was built to do, but he still wants to do it. Hank finds a small bit of pride in helping him get there. 

When they enter the station, Fowler immediately calls them into his office before anyone can jump them. Hank navigates the abnormally busy bullpen, Connor close behind him, avoiding Reed’s desk like it might jump out and grab them. Thankfully the other detective isn’t there, but Hank can feel the anxiety rolling off Connor in waves. He yanks open the door to Fowler’s office and shoos Connor inside, shielding him from the rest of the station by following him inside instead of the other way around. 

Fowler doesn’t waste any time getting started. The door barely clicks shut behind Hank before he flops a thick sheaf of papers on his desk, clasping his hands in front of him as he leans on his arms to stare at the both of them, his eyes particularly hard on Connor.

“You’re both reinstated to the department,” he says shortly. “I fought tooth and nail for your badge after you assaulted Perkins, Hank. Turns out his shitshow with the uprising cost him his job, so I’m happy to inform you I didn’t have to do much ass-kissing to convince them to not bury you under your disciplinary record.”

Hank stuffs his hands in his pockets, trying hard not to let the dark amusement in his gut show on his face. “Thanks,” he says, all perfect sincerity. “I appreciate it.”

Fowler glares at him for a beat, assessing. He nods shortly before turning his stare to Connor. “And you. You’ll take the written test and have a go at the firearm exam, but I doubt you’ll fail, so just sign the paperwork and start working. With the evacuation lifted three days ahead of us, we have a lot of shit to catch up on.”

Connor works his jaw, turning his head to try and evaluate if Hank has any pointers on what to say. Fowler has been cold to him at best, barely acknowledging when he was in the room, so Hank understands the confusion in Connor’s eyes at being addressed directly. He shrugs one shoulder, mouthing “be honest” to him, thankful that Connor’s LED doesn’t change color to display his mood any more than the twist of his brow does on his otherwise carefully blank face. 

“Thank you, Captain,” Connor says slowly. He reaches forward for the pen Fowler holds out to him, signing where he’s told, his signature neat and clean. Hank’s sure he just invented it on the spot - Connor’s never needed to sign with anything but his model and serial number up until now. “I will make you proud.”

“And get me results,” Fowler says. He straightens the paperwork then sets it in a folder to be filed away properly. “I expect the two of you to start ten minutes ago. We discovered mutilated android bodies displayed in pieces in public areas last night. Three dead so far, with no suspects. Up to you to figure out who did this while everyone was evacuated.”

A sense of gratification warms Hank’s insides, pride and gratitude floating around too as they’re finally released for work. Hank nods, giving a half-assed salute with his fingers, and turns to leave, unable to fight down the smile on his face. 

“And Connor,” Fowler barks, stopping the both of them from leaving his office entirely. Hank watches Connor’s face as he carefully throws him a look before slowly turning to face their Captain, every movement precise, his hands carefully at his sides. 

“Yes, Captain?”

A look settles over Fowler’s face that Hank hasn’t seen in a long time. It’s soft, touching on the hardness in Fowler’s eyes, reminding him of the night he showed up at Cole’s funeral with Hank’s badge in his hand and his gun in the other. Others from the precinct had shown up that day too, bringing words and condolences, but it was only when Fowler showed up did Hank finally feel the true weight of Cole’s death on him. He’d been given the choice that night to continue on with his life - to take that badge and gun and do what was right. Fowler had given him that choice - that  _ chance _ \- at the expense of everything. His own job included.

He had that same look on his face as he did that night. This time, though, it was trained on Connor. 

“Congratulations,” Fowler says quietly. 

Connor stiffens. Hank can’t see his LED, but he knows its yellow. 

“Thank you,” Connor says. His voice is soft too, full of gratitude for Fowler acknowledging his personhood and of everything else he’s done. Fowler nods then turns back to his terminal; Connor turns stiffly, his eyes urging Hank to move out of the room as quickly as possible. Hank obliges, leading Connor to their desks.

“We got a  _ case _ , Connor!” Hank hisses as he elbows the android’s side. Connor smiles, his LED still spinning yellow. Hank collapses back into his desk chair, relief flooding him. The familiar sights and sounds of the bullpen surround them, discordant and beautiful at the same time. He never thought he’d be here again, with his job intact and Connor at his side. He nearly thought it was a dream, reaching out to poke Connor in the arm as the android settled on Hank’s desk across from him to make sure he wasn’t. He feels real, and the amused look on Connor’s face is familiar, so he lets it be, content for now to just exist in the station. 

Connor suddenly sobers, his body locking up. Hank sits up a bit, alarm pricking at the surface of his skin. It barely goes away when Connor speaks, everything inside him urging him to find whatever is causing that knot between Connor’s brows. 

“I’m a real detective now,” Connor says softly, bewildered, almost so soft Hank doesn’t catch it over the din of the bullpen. His eyes are staring off into the middle distance over Hank’s head, his hands loose in his lap as his feet dangle off the floor as he sits on Hank’s desk. Hank sits up in his chair, drawing Connor’s attention to him, his heart seizing in his chest with the almost pained curve to Connor’s lips and brow. 

“You were always a detective,” Hank rumbles. He cups Connor’s knee, rubbing his thumb over its curve. “It just took some people time to see you were a person, too.”

Connor smiles, small and private. His LED finally starts to cycle into blue again, his shoulders relaxing. “Thank you.”

Hank shrugs a shoulder, feeling warmth crawl up his throat at showing that little bit of vulnerability. “Don’t worry about it.”

Connor’s LED blinks yellow again, but it’s not in response to emotional stress this time. He straightens, his eyes unfocusing as he turns his attention inward to whatever information was just sent to him. His eyes snap to Hank’s again after a moment, every movement of his body now in detective mode. Hank finds it endearing but hides the smile behind his hand in a guise of smoothing his beard. 

“Captain Fowler just sent me the file on the mangled androids,” he says. He turns and touches Hank’s terminal, his skin peeling back as he interfaces with it to bring up the case for Hank to peruse. He doesn’t move from his perch on Hank’s desk as he does, his thigh pressed to Hank’s arm as Hank scrolls through it. Hank tries not to focus too hard on the contact. 

Thankfully, the pictures of the crime scenes make it pretty easy to ignore it. Three bodies, all of them male androids with their torsos pried open to reveal their still-beating artificial hearts. They’d  been partially disassembled and propped against whatever was closest to keep them upright - a slide in a children’s park, a decorative pole in a shopping mall, and a gazebo in Capital park - their body parts strewn in haphazard circles around them. Thirium pooled around them in dark, glassy halos, and while Hank knows its artificial, it still doesn’t make him feel less queasy at the thought that these androids probably didn’t die from the brutal way they were taken apart. 

“They all bled out?” Hank asks, eyes never leaving the crime scene photos as they idly switch between each other on the screen. 

Connor nods. “All of them had their thirium regulators intact and operating - rudimentary data pulled from their CPUs shows no sign of trauma to their biocomponents besides severing of the main arterial thirium line feeding the central processor from the heart. They survived the mutilation only to bleed to death as their thirium regulators tried to compensate for the loss of blue blood.”

He sounds sad, an ache in his voice that Hank’s heard before when he spoke about Carlos Ortiz’s android committing suicide in his cell. Hank grips his knee again, a comfort that Connor accepts, his brown eyes finding Hank’s in search of answers Hank doesn’t have. He squeezes Connor’s knee then stands, swiping his terminal locked. 

“Ready to go take a look?” he asks, albeit hesitantly. If Connor doesn’t want to do this, then they won’t, Fowler be damned. 

Connor nods. He stands as well, straightening to his full height, his eyes hardening. “Yes. Let’s go.”

Hank holds a hand out, an  _ after you _ gesture that Connor smiles minutely at and accepts. He leads Hank out to the car, his stride even and with purpose. When they get in the car and pull out of the parking structure, a strange feeling of  _ home _ settles over Hank, the same feeling he gets when Connor is curled up on one end of the couch and Hank on the other as they watch television. It’s a feeling of comfort, and as it fills the car along with Connor’s choice in music, he doesn’t want it to ever go away. Not now that everything is finally, finally clicking into place.

For once, Hank Anderson is at peace. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm incredibly sorry for the tardiness of this chapter compared to the others. i was in a car wreck on thursday and have been dealing with that, but now i should be back on track! enjoy!

Ben meets them at the crime scene in the park, his peppy smile a small relief while surrounded by not-so-discreet eyes following Hank and Connor as they approach. 

“Heard your boy got reinstated,” he says brightly as he holds a holopad out to him. 

“He’s not  _ my boy _ ,” Hank hisses. He glares, hard, turning minutely to make sure Connor didn’t hear Ben’s comment.

Connor, thankfully, is already circling the slide, LED pulsing yellow, his shoes crunching in the gravel of the play area. Hank pins his glare back on Ben - Ben doesn’t seem phased in the least, his grin ever present. 

He does hold his hands up placatingly, though. An admission of guilt where his face shows none. “Sorry. You know how it is - birds of a feather, and all that.”

His smile is easy and knowing. Hank knows what he means - the thought has crossed his mind. Maybe not in reference to Connor specifically at first, but now that he reflects back on how his relationship with Connor has developed, the feelings he thought were paternal at best don’t seem to be that way anymore. It’s not like he wanted to fill the hole in his heart that Cole left. He didn’t even want to fill the hole his ex-wife left - and it wasn’t because Connor was a man, either.

But he did want to find companionship. He was really good at pushing others away, even those close to him at some point, and that earned him the reputation of being hard to approach. Everyone knew the only thing he loved more than booze was his dog, and that made it hard for connections to build or last. It wasn’t an avoidance tactic at first, but now that he sees how much he’s changed in the short time since he’s met Connor, then maybe Ben’s right.

The thought drains the fight out of him almost instantly. Ben nods knowingly as Hank just sighs, glancing around to find Connor again, only relaxing when he spots him. Ben elbows him good naturedly, his tone soft as he follows Hank’s stare.

“It’s not a bad thing to realize that about yourself. Or about who it’s for.”

Hank grumbles. “Probably is when it’s at a crime scene.”

Ben shrugs. “Give it time. Maybe he’ll figure it out along with you.”

Connor  _ was _ attached to him, that was for sure. Maybe more than anyone has been in Hank’s long life - and isn’t that a sad thought? An android more attached to him than any human relationship he’s had this far? He shakes the thought off, tracing Connor’s careful footsteps in the snow to where he’s climbed up the slide, his brown eyes searching and LED spinning as he scans the area around them.

“Figure anything out?” Hank asks, following his stare. He’s pieced together a theory, but he might as well give Connor the satisfaction. He earned it, anyway.

Connor climbs down, snow collecting in his hair, catching Hank’s eye. 

“Yes,” Connor says. He gestures to the android filleted against the slide. “There are no missing pieces, so this was not an attempt to steal and sell parts, and the marks along the chassis edges suggest a sharp, metal instrument like a knife. The primary artery leading from the heart to the rest of the body was severed just enough to prolong the bleeding after the android was taken apart - he likely bled out for an hour or more, unable to move or call for help.”

Hank rounds around to face the dead android, his stomach churning at the sight of him. Human or no, it’s a gruesome sight: this poor android - this poor  _ person  _ \- taken apart and put on display like a taxidermied animal. Thirium stains the android’s lips and chin, having likely leaked from the nose from some sort of blow to the head during the struggle for his life. Hank can see scuffle marks around the gravel of the slide, deep gashes and divots as the android and his attacker likely wrestled for control, barely there with the gently falling snow but still visible. Thirium soaks the android’s clothes, too, frozen now in the cold, taking on a glassy blue sheen. His opened chest reveals darkness inside him, his biocomponents dark, his heart no longer beating.

Hank has to tear his eyes away. He fiddles with the holopad, bringing up the android’s information that he doesn’t really see. Connor tips his head, catching Hank’s eyes, and smiles something small.  

“His name was Nathan,” Connor says. “He was a gardener before the revolution. He didn’t live to acquire personhood, but he did live to see something in the world change.” Connor suddenly looks sad, his mouth pinched. “Maybe that gave him some strength as he died.”

“You think he’s been here that long?” Hank asks incredulously, his attention back on Connor.

Connor shakes his head, suddenly serious again. The change in his attitude nearly gives Hank whiplash.

“No, but he has been here for several days. We didn’t know until the evacuation was lifted and a mother spotted him walking through the park. He is arranged in such a way that it is safe to say this is a warning - and it isn’t meant for humans.”

Hank slowly turns to look at Connor again. A sudden chill clasps around his spine that isn’t from the weather.

“You think someone is leaving these as a warning for Markus?” he asks quietly.

Connor shakes his head. “If these were for him - or for any other android - they’d be in locations near, in, or around New Jericho. Markus has built the android camp to be formidable, but if someone wanted to make their point to him, it wouldn’t be out of reach like this, and it certainly wouldn’t be out of the way of where androids are currently congregating.”

He works his jaw, suddenly quiet. Hank doesn’t like the dark look suddenly blooming on Connor’s face - and he doesn’t like that he finally understands.

Who else would see these androids? Who else would know that somewhere within the short timeframe of the evacuation lifting that Hank - and by proxy, Connor - would be reinstated because of staff shortages and the need to keep order in a time of social and political upheaval? 

Hank doesn’t know the answer to the  _ who _ question, but he does know  _ why,  _ and by the quiet, resigned look on his face, Connor has known that answer since before they go here.

“These warnings aren’t for Markus or for humans,” Hank says slowly. Connor meets his eyes, all cool and collected, his expression neutral. “They’re here for you.”

Connor nods. 

Hank grits his teeth, heart suddenly racing. His spine runs cold like he’d been dunked in ice water. 

“ _ Fuck.” _

 

1010101

 

“We can’t keep investigating this case.”

Connor flips his quarter between his fingers in the passenger seat as he stares out the window. “We have no choice. Androids have been granted personhood, and while there is no shortage of human on human homicide, our priority is to investigate androids. Now, androids happen to be murder victims as well.”

“And this particular killer wants you  _ dead,  _ Connor. Or worse,” Hank hisses. It takes everything he has to keep his eyes on the road and not smack Connor for his stupidity. “People barely had time to understand what personhood meant for androids before it was made law. It makes sense they won’t turn on each other and instead aim at the one person that literally forced them out of their homes for a week.”

He didn’t mean to hit a nerve, but Connor turns a sheepish look on Hank anyway. Hank sighs.

“Look,” he starts. “Maybe we should turn this over to Ben. He won’t mind the work, and it gets the target off your back.”

Connor has since stopped playing with his coin, instead opting to pick at a scuff on the knee his jeans, his eyes cast downward. Hank pulls around to Capital park anyway, guilt clogging his throat - he knows he can’t stop Connor from doing what he wants. And maybe this whole thing is just a scare tactic for androids in general, or the person responsible is just  _ that  _ twisted. There could be any number of reasons for someone to do this, and aiming at Connor specifically - despite his break-in at Cyberlife being national news - could be mere coincidence.

But Hank has never believed in coincidences. In all his years in this line of work, it’s never been about figuring out which set of circumstances happened to line up with his theories. The world hardly works that way, and judging by the resigned, dark look on Connor’s face, his partner feels the same way.

“If I caused this,” Connor starts quietly, his eyes meeting Hank’s, “then I want to see what this person has to say.”

Hank doesn’t like it. Connor shouldn’t have to explain himself to anyone, let alone an apparent android serial killer. But he understands the urge to know, to piece together the puzzle until the world makes a little bit more sense - he was young once, and Connor isn’t so unlike him that Hank doesn’t see  _ that  _ resemblance. Their inner workings are obviously different, but the thirst in Connor’s eyes to understand is the same as Hank’s at that age. He understands why Connor wants to take the risk just to know.

“Fine,” Hank sighs. Connor raises a brow, his face carefully guarded. Hank waves to the gazebo they’re parked near, the crime scene swarming with officers keeping back some curious bystanders. “Let’s just be careful.”

Connor nods. He gets out of the car awkwardly, careful not to smack the back of his head on the doorframe. Hank resigns himself to registering a patrol vehicle later in the day so Connor doesn’t have to fold himself so uncomfortable in Hank’s front seat, even if it means putting up with Fowler needling him about how he should have done it sooner.

God, he was whipped. For an android. For  _ Connor _ .

“Fuck,” he hisses as he gets out of the car. Ben, who followed them from the previous crime scene, pats him on the shoulder.

“All in good time, Hank,” Ben says. “You know how long it took for my husband and I to figure our shit out?”

“Are either of you a visually twenty-something android with a computing capacity well beyond the Pleiades supercomputer?” Hank shoots back.  

Ben snorts. “No, but he’s also just a person, Hank. Anyone with eyes can see he’s working on his feelings, too. He relies on you. Don’t push him away just because you look like the textbook definition of daddy kink.”

Hank smacks his arm, aiming to hurt, his expression pinched. Ben just laughs, rubbing his arm with a grin on his face.

“Alright, alright. Back to the case. I understand.”

Hank grumbles. He climbs the steps up to the gazebo, careful not to step in the glaze of blue blood soaking through the wood under the dead android. Hank kneels in a relatively clean patch nearest to the android and shines his pocket flashlight into its chest cavity, searching for the severed thirium artery.

He grimaces when he finds it. Connor has a similar pinched expression as well, his LED whirling yellow as he kneels next to Hank.

“This android is named Arthur,” he says. “A model designed for private housework. There is a small incision below the data access port on the nape of the neck, and without any other defensive wounds or signs of a struggle, we can assume this android was ambushed and put into low power mode before being disassembled.”

Hank moves behind the android, accepting the pair of nitrile gloves Connor holds out to him. He snaps them on, then carefully presses his fingers along the seam Connor indicates on the android’s neck. The skin is gone, revealing the white plasteel underneath, and the cut through it that must have allowed whatever the attacker used to disable Arthur. Connor gives a short explanation about the spine housing critical power and nerve systems that feed into the brain that Hank barely hears over the thundering of his heart in his ears.

“Are you this fragile?” Hank asks, interrupting Connor’s sentence. His stomach churns and his chest constricts - Connor’s been hurt before, sure, but is he this vulnerable? 

Connor catches his meaning, his eyes softening. “No. Many household models were built to be lightweight, without much physical protection for their internal systems because it was theorized they wouldn’t need to absorb high velocity impacts from blows or weapons. But I am different, with a steel alloy chassis that is heavier and more durable. My thirium circulatory system is also armored, with nothing short of a high caliber bullet having the punching capacity to pierce it.”

“And your brain?”

Connor rests his hand on Hank’s shoulder, his voice quiet. “More durable than his.”

He tilts his head, meaning Arthur. Hank swallows the bile in his throat and stands - he’s not convinced, but Connor’s been shot before and it did little to slow him down. Only having his thirium regulator ripped out seemed to stop him, and even then he had the strength to crawl across the damned floor and put it back in. 

Hank blinks away the memory of seeing Connor’s shirt ripped apart, his chassis exposed, thirium soaking his jeans as his regulator blinked between red and blue, erring on failing and only working because Connor was forcing it to. He spent two hours in the DPD tech wing getting fixed - two hours Hank spent spinning his wheels, anxious with a feeling he didn’t understand until now.

He can’t get Cole back. He can’t get Connor back, either. For some reason, the latter stings more than Cole ever had. Maybe because Cole was never supposed to come back, and Connor, at least in theory, had a whole slew of bodies lined up to be filled with his memories before being sent back out into the world. Maybe because he never saw Cole opened up on a table like Connor was that day, biocomponents exposed, his artificial heart beating so fast Hank thought he was scared.

Maybe he was, back then. The look in his eyes matches the one he has now, albeit more guarded while surrounded by their coworkers. Hank stands and leads them back to his car, handing back the holopad to Ben with little more than a goodbye. 

Connor doesn’t say much else on the way back to the station. Hank stews in his feelings, a mixture of affection, concern, and abject disgust boiling in his stomach. He signs off on the papers for a patrol vehicle without saying much, Connor standing at his side, LED whirling as he studies Hank’s face. He knows Connor wants to say something about the plain emotion on his face - Hank wasn’t ever good at hiding how he feels - but he accepts the awkward silence when Hank drops the keys for the new car in Connor’s hand and tells him to follow him to the final crime scene. 

He does, and while Connor sweeps the body for more similarities, Hank stands by. He should help - it’s his job - but he can’t bring himself to stare at the body too long. This android looks too much like Connor, his brown hair slicked to one side and his doe eyes unseeing. Seeing someone so eerily similar to him with their chest ripped apart is too much. Hank excuses himself and hides in his car, trying not to throw up.

“I’m sorry if that was unpleasant for you,” Connor says to his right some time later, startling him from where he was leaning against the steering wheel. Hank sits up as Connor climbs into the passenger side, folding his long legs against the glovebox.

Hank sighs and runs his hands over his face. “I’m okay, Connor. Just brought up some memories.”

Connor tilts his head, earnest. His voice is low and soft - Hank struggles to fight down the heat that blooms in his chest at the sound.

“Is it about Cole?” Connor whispers.

“No.” Hank sighs, trying to fight between what to do. What harm would it do to be honest? He was done, anyway. Might as well let it all out while Connor was still oblivious.

“It’s you, Connor,” he says, something like pain straining his voice. “It’s you.”

Connor blinks, taken aback. He looks away, out to the mostly empty parking lot around them, apparently lost for words. 

Hank internally kicks himself. He shouldn’t be sucking Connor into his emotional constipation, especially now that he acknowledged the more-than-platonic aspect of it. It’s his burden to bear. Connor doesn’t need that amount of confusion along with his own existential crisis.

Connor seems to collect himself. In a gesture Hank knows all too well the gravity of, Connor reaches across, palm up, the skin of his hand vanishing up his sleeve. The white of his palm is startling and almost eerie, but it’s warm and soft when Hank takes his hand. He never expected something that looks so fake to feel so real, but then, that was the point of artificial life. To be lifelike, no matter the cost. 

Connor smiles. It lights a spark in Hank’s heart at the vulnerability in that smile and the gesture. Connor nods, squeezing Hank’s fingers. The feeling is mutual.

“Let’s go home,” Connor says quietly. 

Hank nods, unable to form words his throat is so dry. Connor retracts his hand and climbs into the patrol car next to him, attractive even as he disappears behind the tinted glass. Hank motions for him to lead the way and follows him home, his thoughts a whirlwind, deciding whether it’s worth trying to interpret whether he and Connor could be anything else other than friends.

When he follows Connor into the house and watches him extend his bare hand again, searching for a warmth the both of them need, he decides it is, Connor’s age appearance be damned. He’ll be a dirty old man until the cows come home - if Connor needs him, he has him, Ben’s stupid daddy jokes be damned.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had an epiphany for a plot twist later on in the story while watching the incredibles 2. just fair warning
> 
> edit: i had to change the name of the android in the mall because i got his and another's mixed up. it should be fine now.

Hank wakes the next morning to an empty bed.

Connor had gone into stasis the previous night  to “think on things”, the knot between his brow twisted enough for Hank to know that he was just as affected by the crime scenes as Hank was. Hank didn’t think he had been - he was so calm and collected at work that it was hard to remember that he was deviant, with his thoughts and emotions just as chaotic as Hank’s were now.

Which didn’t make things easier when he awoke to Connor’s side of the bed empty and no apparent note left behind explaining where the android went. Hank stuffs down his worry, opting to allow Connor his privacy. If he didn’t want to be found for now, Hank could live with that, his anxiety about Connor being kidnapped back to Cyberlife be damned.

He showers and shaves, not completely getting rid of his beard but trimming it enough that he doesn’t appear shaggy. A shirt and jeans are already laid out for him against the door of his closet - evidence Connor didn’t just up and leave - so he puts them on with only a small amount of embarrassment. Connor was _dressing_ him now. Maybe he needed to have a talk about personal space after all.

The thought doesn’t sit right with him, though. It feels too much like ordering him around, and if it makes Connor feel better to be helpful in this small way, Hank will allow it as long as Connor doesn’t find anything more outrageous than the clothes he already owns. He got enough shit about wearing what people considered _hippy_ clothes; he didn’t need Connor reinforcing that with whatever the android thought fashion sense for fifty year old men was.

Sumo greets him from his spot near the computer desk when Hank trudges into the kitchen. Hank coos at him, baby-talking without thinking, turning away from the pot of coffee he was making to scoop a couple cups of food into Sumo’s bowl. Connor had gotten into the habit of controlling his food so he’d lose some weight, and while Hank thought it was ridiculous to control a dog’s _food,_ he had to admit that Sumo was looki -

Hank stops, cup of food still full in his hand. Sumo’s bowl is already full, which in itself isn’t all that strange. If Hank wakes first he does it, but Connor doesn’t usually sleep, meaning the bowl is filled when Hank gets up. Hank straightens, casting his eyes across the darkened living room, freezing when he spots a familiar profile illuminated by the gray early morning light bleeding through the curtains.

“Connor?” Hank asks. “The hell are you doing sitting in the dark?”

Connor whips around at the sound of his name. His expression is of mild surprise, but his LED is bright yellow  in the dark, betraying his thoughts. He shoots up off the couch and steps around into the light of the kitchen, his hands awkwardly at his sides as Hank’s eyes quickly drop from his eyes to what he’s wearing.

Connor shifts his weight uneasily. “I apologize, Hank. I didn’t mean to scare you, but I also didn’t want to disturb you by getting back into bed. I hope that’s alright.”

Hank nods. He snaps his jaw shut, finally aware that it’d been hanging open. He can’t tear his eyes away from Connor, though, still stuck on his clothes. Somehow - and Hank’s brain really emphasizes _somehow_ \- Connor had gotten ahold of a downy grey three piece suit in the middle of the night. Not just a three piece suit, but one that fit him excruciatingly well, his shoulders filling out the jacket in all the right places while his slacks hugged his trim legs much better than his jeans ever did. His black shirt doesn’t bring out the paleness of his skin like Hank thought it would, instead accentuating his dark hair nicely. Connor nervously tightens his charcoal grey tie as Hank continues to eye him up and down, only barely managing to drag Hank’s attention back to the present by the curious tilt of his head.

“Is this okay?” Connor asks softly. He sounds nervous, a knot forming between his brows. Hank swallows the heat building in his throat and nods, trying not to stare as Connor steps around the table.

“Yeah, Connor,” Hank manages. “Of course. You look, uh - really, er, good. Really nice.” Fuck. Connor smiles, his cheeks blooming red, dipping his chin as Hank continues to stammer. “Where - where did you get it?”

Connor looks around the kitchen, unable to meet Hank’s eyes, LED stuck on yellow. “Markus helped. I didn’t want to have just one pair of clothes, and it seemed fitting to try something similar to what I had worn before. I ordered it yesterday, and was surprised when it was delivered early this morning. I didn’t think the drone postal network was still active.”

Hank blinks. “How much did that _cost_ , Connor?”

Connor smiles timidly. “Enough that I don’t want to tell you.”

Hank huffs. He reaches out his hand and takes Connor’s own, leading him closer so he can get a better look. Connor turns for him, revealing the tri-cut style of his jacket that is more similar to the one he wore while still an android for Cyberlife. It fits him nicely, accentuating his lines in ways his other clothes failed to do. It drives home just how perfect Connor is compared to Hank: his elegance even down to the fineness of his eyelashes and the seemingly random pattern of freckles and moles on his face, neck, and hands. Compared to Hank he’s Adonis, a God carved from steel and plastic, gracing Hank with his presence only because he chooses to.

Connor tilts his head again, drawing Hank’s attention to his eyes. His expression softens as he squeezes Hank’s fingers, something like affection blooming on his features.

“You’re fine the way you are, Hank,” he says quietly. Hank usually hates the word _fine_ , its many definitions too varied for him to appreciate the compliment from anyone else. Connor makes it sound nice though, so he accepts it even if Connor practically read his mind, barely able to stamp down on the butterflies in his stomach.

“It’s nothing, Connor. I’ll be alright.”

Connor steps in his way as he tries to turn towards the coffee pot again. He isn’t taller than Hank, but he’s close enough that avoiding his gaze is near impossible. Hank sighs, resigned.

“If you need to talk,” Connor starts.

Hank scratches his beard. His heart is in his throat but he swallows it down, fighting to find words. Connor deserves that much if they’re going to live together - being unresponsive and bull-headed won’t get him anywhere if his partner can read his damn blood pressure and heart rate just by looking at him.

“I guess it just hits a nerve,” Hank admits. Connor raises a brow. “Having my partner strut around in a thousand dollar suit while I’m in jeans and a tee shirt.”

Realization dawns on Connor. His eyes flick up and down Hank, something like amusement dancing in their depths. Hank immediately bristles, preparing for whatever snark Connor has lined up for him.

Thankfully, the android just shrugs a shoulder. “I got less expensive things to wear as well. This is just - “ he stops, the amused quirk to his mouth still there despite the hesitation settling along his brow. “This is just something I got to look nice, I suppose.”

The unsaid _for you_ hangs in the air between them, heavy and warm on Hank’s heart. It doesn’t take much to impress him - not that Connor _needed_ to impress him - but the fact that Connor went out of his way (and spent a huge sum of money) on trying to look good for him sets his head spinning. If Hank was questioning whether what he felt for Connor was one-sided, he isn’t now, and he hardly has any idea what to do with that information besides clutch onto it for as long as he can.

Because maybe Connor is doing it because Hank called him goofy that one time. Or maybe it’s something else, an idea planted into his head from a misinterpretation between them. Hank wasn’t in the habit of complimenting people. It was much easier to push them away and keep them at a distance with harsh words, and Connor hadn’t been an acception to that rule.

Until now. Connor falters, his smile drooping. He steps away from Hank, a large step that puts a chasm of space between them. He turns and disappears into their bedroom quickly, presumably to change. Hank follows him without thinking, catching Connor’s hands as he goes to shrug off the jacket.

Connor turns a questioning look on him, freezing as Hank’s hands clasp around his shoulders.

“I didn’t mean take it off,” Hank grouses. “I guess I just meant it’s a lot of money for something when you have a habit of getting shot.”

“I know,” Connor says, rather defensively. He averts his gaze to the other hanging suits in his closet. “I’ll be careful, Hank.”

Hank nods. He kneads Connor’s shoulder, hoping the contact will relax him. Fuck, he’s bad at this. He should have just said Connor looks nice. He wouldn’t be trying to console the android’s hurt feelings if he had.

Connor’s smile is small as he puts back on the jacket. Hank almost wishes he hadn’t - Connor’s thin waist accentuated by the vest was a sight he didn’t think anyone should be without. He returns the smile, patting Connor’s shirt before stepping away towards the door, reinstating space between them.

“Just don’t let Reed dump coffee on you, yeah?” Hank says.

Connor huffs a laugh. “I think coffee stains are the least of my worries at this point.”

He’s right, but no sense in arguing semantics. There’s enough on their plate as it is with the rise of violence on androids now that it’s public record Detroit’s municipality was hiring on the androids it was previously using as free labor. Humans were filling positions too, but most didn’t have the experience the androids already had been designed for. Hank is just happy he gets to keep his damn job after assaulting Perkins, with Connor at his side to boot.

He wonders what Perkins is doing these days now that he’d been fired. He thinks about it the entire drive to the precinct, Connor stretched out in his seat next to him, no longer having to scrunch himself awkwardly into the car with the reclining seats of their unmarked vehicle. He decides he doesn’t care, and blares jazz the drive over, content even just for a bit that things are working out.

 

1010101

 

Connor usually turned heads for all the wrong reasons when he first arrived at the precinct, and Hank had been one of them. Police androids were to be seen, not heard, their duties so menial that it was easy to forget that there were other, more sophisticated androids out there. Connor had been one of them, disrupting the status quo in the department just by existing, his sharp wit and disarming smile just one more thing for the humans of the department to use against him.

Androids weren’t supposed to be lifelike. They were tools designed to take over the hard and boring work no one else wanted to do. Even if one acted and sounded alive, they weren’t, and people were used to that.

However, in true Connor fashion, he broke that status quo as well. His strut into the station was with purpose as always, but instead of people turning to watch with barely veiled contempt, his sharp figure in his new suit draws stares that make even Hank uncomfortable.

Connor seems oblivious as he keeps two steps ahead of Hank. His LED blinks rapidly, his face unreadable as he paces across the bullpen to his desk. Hank splits off to get coffee, if nothing else to separate himself from the open stares people are giving Connor, thankful at least they’re leaving him alone.

“He cleans up nicely,” Ben comments as Hank enters the break room. Hank sighs and wipes a hand down his face, hoping the heat he feels crawling up his neck doesn’t spread to where anyone can see.

“I think he’s doing it on purpose,” Hank says. “He said he and Markus bought more than one. Maybe he’s trying to kill me.”

Ben snorts and fills his coffee cup when Hank is finished. “If you don’t bite, I will, Hank.”

Hank turns a glare on Ben. The other detective’s smile is placid, his round face unassuming. It’s probably what’s so disarming about him, and why the others don’t take him as seriously - for all Ben’s sharp words and sharper mind, he was still one of the calmer attitudes at the precinct, especially compared to Hank or Reed. Next to them, Ben was an angel.

But those words weren’t angelic, and they certainly didn’t inspire any pure thoughts in Hank’s brain. Hank stares him down as he fights the venom off his words, something like possessiveness coming over him. Connor isn’t a _thing_ , he’s a person, he says to himself, but he’s certainly no one else’s, either.

Ben sips his coffee as he raises his other hand in surrender, eyes twinkling. “Alright, Hank. But when he’s dressed like that, don’t fault me for looking.”

“Above the waist,” Hank snaps back, as if Connor was any less handsome above the belt line. Ben laughs and turns out of the room. “And don’t make any smartass comments!”

He shouts at Ben’s back, not caring if anyone near the break room will hear. He finishes making his coffee in an angry rush, careful only not to spill it as he sits at his desk across from where Connor is interfacing with his terminal. He’s staring straight ahead, eyes unseeing as his exposed palm rests against the holographic keyboard - an unsettling sight in contrast to his trim suit. Hank stews, passing a hard glance at Ben every time the other man moves at his desk as he unlocks his own terminal and peruses the alerts left there from the CSI department.

Connor straightens when Hank is settled in, blinking away whatever he’d been looking at behind his eyes as the skin of his hand forms back over his palm. Hank raises a brow at him and swipes his terminal closed, giving Connor his full attention.

“I downloaded and organized the results from CSI,” Connor starts. Hank tips his head towards the L in his desk, and Connor takes the invitation, moving to sit where Hank indicated. Connor continues without interrupting; Hank fights to keep his eyes on Connor’s face as the fabric stretches around his legs as he sits. “They found the item used to pry open the chest cavity on all three androids was the same bastard-cut mill file. It’s estimated to be twelve inches long and brand new from the lack of other contaminants on the edges of the android’s chassis. The item used to cut their thirium lines was a rescue knife with a saw edge, but they don’t know how big it was.”

Hank nods. He swipes his terminal awake again and skims the high resolution photos of the android’s chassis, taking in the bare steel that was scraped off on the plastic. Around the edges of the exposed chest cavity are what appear to be pierce marks where the sharp end of the file had been used to pry the pieces apart. Along the margins of the photos are details on the wound size and material of both the chest plates and weapon used to open them, but Hank doesn’t see it, too focused on putting the image together in his head of what happened.

“You think they were lured here? Or were taken from another location?” he asks.

Connor quirks a brow, silently questioning.

“They were kind of far away from Markus’ group,” Hank explains. “So either these were deviants hiding in the area that we caught, or they were taken from somewhere else. Do we know who owned them before?”

The word _owned_ strikes a chord with both of them, though in different ways. Hank bites his tongue as Connor grimaces, his LED flashing yellow before settling on blue again.

“Sorry,” Hank murmurs. He means it.

Connor nods. “It’s alright. I ran the search anyway. William - the android found in the mall - was owned by a woman named Amy Wick, though she doesn’t live in the area he was found in. We could start there.”

Hank gestures with his hand to the room at large. “Lead the way.”

Connor hops off the desk and leads Hank out into the station parking structure after confirming with Ben and the CSI lead where they were going. Connor programs the GPS to Amy Wick’s home address - a suburb on the nicer side of Detroit in a closed HOA neighborhood - then settles in for the drive, his fingers busy fiddling with his quarter.

Hank, however, doesn’t allow him to lead when they get to Wick’s house. Connor acquiesces without question, stepping behind Hank as they navigate the curved stone path up to the front door. Hank notes the well kept porch plants and lawn before knocking, recalling the little information they know about William so he can better fish for answers from Amy.

“She is twenty-six, married, with one child,” Connor murmurs. Hank hums, then rings the doorbell when there is no answer after several moments. “She is also unemployed.”

Hank grimaces. Maybe she won’t be so forward with her answers, then. Unemployed and pliable to an android’s well being generally didn’t go hand in hand, even with younger adults. Hank debates just questioning her down at the station when the door opens, revealing a tall woman with dark hair and eyes.

She seems taken aback at Hank and Connor on her doorstep. She blinks, then plasters a smile on her face, opening the door more fully to greet them.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting anyone,” she says. “Can I help you?”

Hank tips open his jacket, revealing his badge on his belt. “Yeah. I’m Lieutenant Hank Anderson, and this is Connor. We’re with Detroit Police, and we have some questions about an android you owned.”

Her smile falters. Her eyes flick to Connor and sweep him up and down, judging without revealing anything else on her face.

“Yes, I put in a request with Cyberlife to figure out when I could be reimbursed for the loss of William,” she says. She steps aside suddenly. “Would you like to come in?”

Hank turns to glance at Connor. Connor dips his chin, agreeing - Hank swallows the acidic feeling in his throat and smiles at Amy, accepting the offer, stepping inside her home with more caution than was probably necessary.

Connor does as well, his steps careful. Amy shuts the door behind them and moves around them into the kitchen to the left, putting on a pot of coffee without asking. Hank glances around the open plan of her house, taking in the clean carpets and hardwood floors, the dusted bookshelves and entertainment center, a clean dog bed in one corner near the sliding glass door leading to an immaculate backyard. Connor steps ahead, LED blinking, his gaze and gait careful as he moves around the living room in a wide loop.

“What would you like to know about him?” Amy asks, bringing Hank back to the moment. He accepts the cup of coffee she holds out to him and sits across from her at the dining table, his eyes on her face but his attention more on Connor as he swings around the other side to stand at Hank’s elbow.

“He was found dead in a shopping mall on the other side of town,” Hank says bluntly. He memorizes the twitch along her mouth - and the complete lack of any other reaction. He continues. “A metal file was used to open him up after he was paralyzed with a blow to the back of the neck. The attacker cut open a thirium line in his body and left him to bleed out while he was still alive. We were wondering if you knew where he was before this and why someone would do this to him.”

Amy swallows thickly. She brings her hands up onto the table, picking at her nails in an apparent nervous habit. “He… disappeared at the beginning of that android’s march through the city last week. I didn’t see him leave, but when we got home and found out he wasn’t here, we contacted Cyberlife.”

She doesn’t seem torn up about his destruction, though she could be hiding her reaction well enough that it simply comes off as her lying. Hank pushes the untouched cup of coffee she’d given him and sits up straight, folding his hands neatly in front of him.

“Do you think he just… ran into the wrong kind of people?” he asks plainly. He’s fishing - Connor seems to catch on, his body angling more towards the conversation. “Now that androids have been given personhood status and citizenship, you understand this is considered a hate crime, right?”

“We have no suspects,” Connor cuts in. “You understand what that means for you.”

The threat seems to snap something inside Amy. Her lips thin, a flush rising to her dark cheeks as she fights back tears. A sob escapes her suddenly, like air being punched out of her. Hank bites the inside of his cheek as he stamps down the urge to circle the table and comfort her - they need this pressure to reveal the truth. He can’t compromise it even as his heart tugs for her.

“I’m sorry,” she gasps out. “I didn’t - this must be so disgusting to you.”

Hank feels his jaw drop. His brain suddenly stops, all train of thought leaving him like breath on the wind. Huh? Did he miss something?

Connor must feel the same way. He shifts from foot to foot, his hands coming to his sides as his fingers itch for something to mess with.

“What is disgusting?” he asks quietly.

Amy stands and fetches a thin folder from between some books on the bookshelf across from her living room couch. She opens it then slides it across the table, tears still bright wet on her cheeks as she crosses her arms across herself as if to shield her from both of them.

“The marriage certificate is fake,” she says. “We created it to - to defuse suspicion. No one would know anything if they thought I was married, and my daughter already adored him.” She sucks in a stuttering breath, trying to calm herself. “My father pays for everything to keep up the illusion that William runs his own business from home. This… I’m sorry. I should have said something, but we wanted to hide it.”

With blinding, sudden clarity, Hank understands. She wasn’t married, but she was in a relationship with an android. Whether that was marriage to her or not was irrelevant - this wasn’t just sex. People went to places like the Eden Club for sex with androids, then went home to their husbands and wives and pretended like they weren’t doing anything wrong. They didn’t buy an android and fall in love with it - with _them_ \- going so far as to fake an entire marriage to hide the affair as if it were a dirty secret. They didn’t lie to a police officer to cover it up if it was just pleasure or enjoyment they were seeking.

It hits too close to home for Hank. His chest constricts with a weight he’d rather not deal with here in this poor woman’s house, so he fights through it, standing and reaching out to Amy to reassure her. She allows him to touch her arm, and when he tips his head to meet her eyes, he finds fear there. Fear he might hurt her or yell at her. Fear he will vindicate her and leave without giving her any more answers.

Connor hovers uneasily where he stands. Hank tries to ignore the burning stare the android is giving him and focuses just on Amy, on her dark eyes and the tremble in her lips.

“It’s alright,” he hears himself say. He feels his mouth forming the words but doesn’t remember forcing them out. He opts not to think too hard about it. “It’s not - trust me. It’s not disgusting. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Three weeks ago, he wouldn’t have said this. Three weeks ago, he wholeheartedly believed androids were just things humans used to get the shit done they didn’t want to do themselves. Connor had been no different in the beginning, he was just taller and more handsome in an eerily perfect sort of way. Androids and humans having sex had been just another part of life for Hank, a way for people to fuck and have their cake too. He didn’t agree with it, but it was part of what their society was now, and who was Hank to challenge that?

Except it wasn’t that way anymore. Hank had a hard time keeping his thoughts above the belt when Connor stood too close - who was he to tell this woman that what she felt for William wasn’t real? That what he feels for _Connor_ isn’t real?

Amy sniffles, her hands shaking as she accepts the handkerchief Hank holds out to her. It’s a different pattern than the one he’d given Connor, a dark green with white paisley. She scrubs her face with it as Hank steps back, giving her space.

“Please,” she says eventually, her voice hoarse. Hank’s heart aches just hearing it, nevermind the utterly broken look marring her pretty features. “Just find who did this to him.”

Hank nods. His throat is dry as he tries to form words, his jaw working. He coughs into his hand and murmurs an affirmation to her, looking anywhere but at Connor. He gives her his name, phone number, and badge number, assuring her that if she remembers anything to let him know even if he doesn’t answer. She accepts elegantly despite the puffiness around her eyes and shows them out, her grateful thanks following them out into the cold.

Hank climbs into the car without a word. Connor does as well, though his stare never leaves Hank. Hank chances a glance at him and regrets it, noticing too quickly the doubt and amazement in Connor’s eyes for what it is.

“You aren’t opposed to a relationship with an android,” Connor wonders aloud. His tone is soft, almost lost to the silence in the cab. Hank notes he doesn’t say relationship plural - just one, _a_ relationship.

Hank debates whether he shouldn’t say anything. He’s fucked either way, but denial is easier to deal with than whatever is in Connor’s too-hopeful eyes.

He decides against it. Despite his stomach clogging his throat, he nods, keeping his eyes on Connor even if he doesn’t want to.

“Yes,” he says slowly. Fuck. _Fuck_. “I’m not opposed to a relationship with an android.”

Connor swallows. He turns slowly around in his seat so he’s facing ahead, the dumbstruck look never leaving his face. His hands are limp in his lap as Hank starts the car, heading home even if they have a full day of investigating ahead of them. He needs a drink - or a nap - and he won’t find it chasing rabbits down a hole.

Connor doesn’t argue. A blessing or a curse, Hank doesn’t know, but when they get home, Connor immediately shuts down into stasis on his side of the bed without bothering to pay Hank any mind. Hank isn’t offended. He leashes Sumo and heads out for a walk, thankful at least he can be with his own thoughts for a while even as they race too fast for his brain to catch them.

One thing he does know is: he’s fucked. Royally.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i apologize for the shorter chapter. it didnt fit with what i have planned next, so here we go!

Their luck, unfortunately, starts and ends with Amy. The other two owners of Nathan and Arthur are well-meaning families that reported their androids missing at the beginning of the revolution, but hadn’t heard of anything else pertaining to them. They weren’t as upset about the android’s deaths as Amy was, and that, for Hank, was telling enough that they weren’t involved. 

CSI can’t find anything on the mall cameras either, siting they were scrubbed prior to when the body was found. No foul play so far, but the twist in Connor’s mouth when they hear the news is more than enough for Hank to know that it wasn’t that simple. He knows they’re dealing with someone professional, someone with ease of access to the mall without breaking in and the ability to physically overcome three separate androids in three separate locations. Connor shoots an alert out to Markus for anything he could dig up, but for now they had nothing, so it was off to solving other open cases while they waited for a lead to surface.

Connor collapses in his desk chair after the debrief with forensics, staring at his terminal, a frustrated knot between his brows. Hank settles into his own chair and watches him, waiting him out. Usually Connor was animated at work, but since the car ride home from Amy’s, he’s been quiet. Which in itself wasn’t unusual - he wasn’t what Hank would call chatty, even if he did have a habit of being long-winded when he did speak. But he wasn’t normally this shuttered, something in his face hiding whatever his thoughts may be, his LED never betraying him. 

Fowler emerges from his office, catching the attention of most of the detectives and officers in the bullpen. He nods at Hank, then motions into his office, backtracking inside when Hank stands. Hank holds a hand out for Connor to stay when the android stands to follow him, then follows Fowler, sitting in one of the two chairs in front of his desk once the door is shut behind him.

“This about the android serial killer?” Hank asks instead of a greeting. Fowler shakes his head and sets a medium-sized black box and a handgun with a shoulder harness on the edge of his desk.

Hank raises a brow as Fowler points at the items for him to take. “Connor’s badge,” Fowler says. “It came in early this morning from engraving. The gun is his, but he has to go downstairs and take the test before I allow him out of the station with it. Paperwork has already been mailed to your address.”

Hank blinks. His mouth runs dry as he picks up the box first, feeling its weight in his hand. It’s like a wedding ring box, only bigger - he flips it open to reveal a brand new gold shield set in leather, the words DETROIT POLICE DETECTIVE and Connor’s badge number crisp and visible on the top half of the badge. He rubs his thumb over the freshly milled number - 800 - only barely hiding the smirk that forms on his face. 

Fowler notices and snorts. “Yeah. Seemed fitting it match his model number.”

“Didn’t know you’d be sentimental for an android,” Hank murmurs. Hank snaps the box shut before carefully taking the gun and harness. “I thought you despised the poor kid.”

Fowler doesn’t immediately respond. His eyes flick from Hank to where Connor is still idly lounging at his desk, his face still unreadable. Fowler scratches his chin and crosses his arms, something like discomfort coming over his otherwise deadpan features. 

“I guess I was wrong,” Fowler says at length. Hank huffs - what the hell has this world come to? Fowler smirks at Hank’s reaction. “Look. Just give it to him. I think it’ll mean more coming from you.”

Hank stands, a weight like dread settling in his stomach. He dips his chin, unable to form words. He hopes Fowler understands the gravity of Hank actually showing gratitude even if he can’t speak. Thankfully, his old friend doesn’t poke him further, nodding in understanding. Hank excuses himself and rounds Connor’s desk, somehow startling him even though Connor could see him coming from Fowler’s office the entire time. 

Connor sits up, blinking. Hank holds out the box at the uptick of his brow, unable to stop the grin from forming on his face. 

“Welcome to the force, Connor,” Hank says softly. “You earned it.”

The side of Connor’s mouth twists like it does when he’s unsure of what to say. His LED spins, yellow and blue, yellow and blue, blinking so fast Hank doesn’t know how the kid doesn’t blow up. Too much has happened between them since last night for Hank to know for sure what he’s thinking, but Connor thankfully seems to settle his thoughts as his LED calms. He carefully opens the box Hank gave him, his eyes still on Hank, his expression leery.

Connor still doesn’t speak when he looks at what’s inside it. The black box sits in his hand as he stares at his badge, LED blinking again, his face completely blank. His other hand jerks off his lap as he carefully takes the badge out of the box almost like it might bite him. Hank tries not to laugh as Connor looks back up at him in confusion, lips pursed in a thin line.

“This is mine?” he asks, voice quiet.

Hank nods. He motions for Connor to stand, taking off the android’s jacket when he does. Connor doesn’t fight him as Hank slips the harness over his shoulders and tightens to where Connor still has full movement of his arms. 

“This too,” Hank says. Connor raises a brow, his arms still wide at his sides where he’d allowed Hank to manipulate him. Hank does laugh then, unable to fight it down.

“You look like I just told you I’m pregnant,” Hank wheezes.

Connor blinks. “Hank, you just handed me a badge and gun when I’ve barely been more than a bloodhound around here.”

Hank smoothes a hand over Connor’s vest as he drops his arms. He feels a heartbeat under Connor’s sternum, fluttering quickly like a bird’s. Connor watches as Hank’s hand settles on his hip, an intimacy they haven’t ever shared. Hank swallows the fear in his throat and tosses his head to the stairs leading down to the shooting range.

“You have to take the test,” Hank says. “It’ll be quick, I promise.”

Connor opens and closes his mouth, looking more like a suffocating fish as he tries to form words. He slowly shrugs back on his jacket and follows Hank down into the shooting range, copying Hank when he flashes his badge to the officer working the security station. She allows them both into the closest stall before she flips a switch on the control board in front of her. 

A holographic display activates after she does, cameras shuttering open and targets forming from the crossing blue and pink lasers across the entire range. Hank puts on the provided noise cancelling headphones as the security officer comes out and explains the test to Connor, showing him the display timer on the inside of his goggles and telling him to unload and disassemble the weapon when he’s done. He listens, nodding, carefully following her instructions. When his eyes and ears are protected and the officer is satisfied he knows how to load and unload his pistol, she steps back to the viewing line with Hank, nodding for Connor to start.

As soon as he raises his arms, the simulation starts. Moving and stationary targets materialize, flitting from one end of the range to the other, dodging and rolling to avoid potential slugs. Connor - with inhuman speed - shifts to hit every single one, his hands steady and barely moving from the recoil of the handgun. The sounds of the gun firing are loud even with the headgear on, with the pinging of the bullet casings on the concrete at Connor’s feet like bells between the cacophony. 

The gun clicks after seventeen rounds have been spent. Connor disassembles the gun, carefully checking the chamber before tearing it apart. He sets each piece aside then stands back with his hands clasped behind his back.

Hank takes off his headgear with a smile. The officer does as well, taking Connor’s goggles and looking at the time to confirm the number on hers. She smiles and shakes his hand - Connor smiles back timidly. 

“You passed,” she says. She retreats back into the security station and types on her computer briefly before she prints Connor’s certificate. It has each miss and hit in one margin and the time he fired it in the other - Hank can’t fight down the smile on his face when he glances over and sees Connor missed none. 

Connor takes the certificate gratefully and leads the way up the stairs, Hank close behind him. He suddenly stops on the landing before the last stretch, causing Hank to bump into him.

Hank steadies Connor with a hand on Connor’s hip. He raises a brow, careful as he catches Connor’s eyes as they jump from the paper in his hands to Hank’s.

“Everything okay?” Hank asks. 

Connor nods. A determined look crosses his face - Hank’s stomach sinks to the bottom of his boots. 

“Would it be alright if we spoke about last night?” Connor says.

Hank’s heart picks up speed and the dread in his gut thickens. He’d hoped Connor’s silence today meant he  _ didn’t  _ want to talk about, that maybe whatever he had to go into stasis for would tell him just a little bit about human tact. Hank hadn’t exactly been subtle, and lately Connor’s stares had been more than lingering.

It was probably just Hank projecting. He hopes to every deity that he was, because before he can decide otherwise he’s nodding. Connor swallows and jerks his head, resuming their walk back up the stairs. Connor waits patiently while Hank grabs his coffee and keys before leading him out to the car, his pace brisk.

The car ride home is awkward to say the least. Connor usually fidgets, any number of habits he’s picked up since his production date revealing themselves often when they’re driving. This time he doesn’t, his body eerily still, his LED reflecting yellow in the tinted window as he stares out to the street. Hank cranks on the radio to drown out the silence as his stomach and brain battle for which body cavity he should drown in alcohol first.

Connor hesitates inside the door when Hank lets them in, only adding to Hank’s mounting anxiety. Hank tries to work some of it off by putting on a cup of coffee but it doesn’t work - he can still feel Connor’s presence across the room, his stare burning a brand into Hank’s skull. 

“Okay,” Hank concedes. He collapses onto one end of the couch, his brain so full of how this might go that he barely registers Sumo putting his big head on the cushions between them. He jerks when his fingers find the dog’s fur the same time Connor’s do, but he doesn’t move away. 

It’s now or never. Might as well be now.

“Is it about Amy?” Hank asks, like he doesn’t know exactly what Connor is after. He tries to sound curious but it just ends up coming out tired. Hank presses the heel of his other palm into his eye socket, willing his brain to just  _ stop _ for once.

Connor doesn’t seem offended by his tone. “It is related to what you said during our visit to her.”

“Ah.” Hank pushes Sumo away as he tries to push his nose further up the couch for more attention. “Look, Connor. This is really difficult to talk about and I’d rather we just forget about it.”

He doesn’t want to hurt Connor’s feelings if everything ends up just being a misunderstanding. If Hank is reading things wrong or seeing things that aren’t there, he’d rather just fume in his own frustrations rather than drag Connor down the more unpleasant aspects of being human. The android has to face enough with the constant whiplash of emotions around him, not even scratching the surface of the amount of hate he faces just by existing and being who he is. So much expectation rides on his shoulders that Hank would rather spare him this so they could continue being effective partners instead of muddying the line of their already blurry relationship.

Besides, Hank isn't young anymore. Connor is - he was literally built to be. With a boyish face and disarming charm, he shouldn’t be seen hanging around with Hank anyway. It hurt to think that Connor should find some pretty android and bounce off into the sunset with them, but what did Hank have to offer? Bad drinking habits and a fifty year old sense of style?

Connor shifts on his side of the couch, drawing one of his long legs under him to better face Hank to catch his attention. Hank watches warily as Connor reaches across the space between them with his hand, the skin of it peeling away to reveal clean white plastic. A gesture Hank would have returned if it had been just a day ago - now, he isn’t sure. 

“You said you didn’t mind a relationship with an android,” Connor starts softly. He watches cautiously, hand still extended, his face carefully guarded. “I was wondering if that was a hypothetical situation.”

Hank flicks his gaze from Connor’s hand to his eyes. His LED is calm, no longer a tentative yellow. Hank considers asking him whether he’d get it removed, then thinks better of it. Connor has never hidden who or what he is. It’d be strange for him to start now. 

He also considers not taking Connor’s hand. The android probably doesn’t care either way, but there’s an edge to the guard on his face, the way his shoulders are still and his eyes never blink or waver. He expects an answer, whether it be good or bad, and Hank suddenly can’t stomach the bad. Connor has done as much as he can to rectify his wrongs, and in the short amount of time Hank has known him, he’s never been short of sincere. It’d be wrong to deny him this if Hank feels the same way. It’d be wrong to shut the door in his face and tell him that while the feeling is reciprocated, that he can’t have it simply because Hank is human and Connor is not. 

It wouldn’t be just wrong. It’d be suicide. Hank couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t take this one risk that his heart yearns for, dirty old man comments be damned. It’s not like Connor was asking to flaunt everything to the public - far from it. He just wanted confirmation that he wasn’t alone, that in this whirlwind of emotion there was someone standing next to him in the eye of the storm. Hank had always been there, but now was his chance to solidify that bond and never let him go. 

Fuck. This wasn’t like how it was with his ex-wife. That relationship had been doomed from the start, barely getting off the ground before Cole was born and crashing and burning after he had been. Cole had been the last straw on the metaphorical camel’s back: he was born, she was gone, Hank was left caring for a baby he hardly had much attachment too. Only through raising Cole as a single parent did he learn what it meant to find love and to hold onto it for as long as he could. Only through suffering did he understand that not all good things came because he wanted them to. 

Connor was that chance. He wasn’t human, and he was young enough in appearance that it still gave Hank the creeps thinking about what people would see. But he was also the only person Hank had a real connection to anymore. Sure, he had Ben, Fowler, and Chris, but Connor was a constant now, his beacon in the dark, his harbor when he drifted too far into the deep. Too long now had he known nothing but self-hatred. It was probably time to kick himself in the ass and get over it. 

Hank blinks at Connor’s hand. The android still holds it out as an offering, his palm soft looking even without the skin. Hank slowly reaches out and takes it in his own, letting their fingers naturally slot together. He keeps his eyes there, memorizing the freckles on the back of Connor’s hand as the skin reforms, their seemingly random pattern probably not so random considering how much time and energy was spent building him. Connor smiles when Hank chances a glance, and Hank, despite fighting it down, smiles back. 

“It wasn’t hypothetical, Connor,” Hank says quietly. He spent so long in his own head that it takes him a minute to find words, searching in Connor’s face for something that would tell him what it is Connor would respond to. He falls back to honesty, deigning to never lie to Connor again. “This - what you feel. What I feel. It isn’t hypothetical.”

Connor nods. Something in his face relaxes and suddenly Hank is looking at Connor again, and not the guarded, blank expression he reserves for cases. He didn’t realize how expressive the android could be until he saw it every day - the thought swells his heart with a warmth he can’t quite place. 

“I feel differently for you than I do Markus or Chris or Wilson,” Connor says. His expression is somewhere between soft amazement and confusion, like he can’t decide if he’s dreaming or not. “I feel companionship for them, and protectiveness and warmth. I don’t want to never see them again. But Hank - I can’t explain the heat warnings or rising thirium pump rate when I’m around you. Markus said it was to be expected around someone I cared about so much but I - this isn’t the same with the others.”

It sounds so cheesy. Like Connor picked up a romance novel and flipped to a random page before reciting it to him. But Connor probably didn’t pick the language himself. Hank would bet big bucks on Connor looking up what fluttering heart rates and rising body temperature coincided with, and would bet even bigger bucks on him googling “what is love”. 

It’s cute though, and so like Connor to sit back and collect as much knowledge and information as he could before trying to act. Hank snorts and shakes his head, pulling Connor into his chest and wrapping his arms around Connor’s middle. He doesn’t think he could look Connor in the face right now - Connor doesn’t complain, his arms coming around Hank’s neck easily, his nose pressed into Hank’s jaw. 

“It’s not the same because it’s not friendship you feel,” Hank says. He winces slightly and corrects himself so Connor doesn’t get confused. “Well, you do. But it’s not the same. You can feel companionship with someone and still love them, but I think what this is is the same as me. It’s a little stronger than that.”

Hank can feel Connor suck in a breath. A reaction he probably doesn’t even know he has, but it helps Hank judge his mood before he feels Connor’s shuddering words against his skin. 

“I read that people in love usually kiss,” he says, muffled into Hank’s shirt collar. Hank feels that anxious energy crawling at his throat again, a mixture of what he wants and what he knows warring there, almost making him gag. He loves Connor, would probably kill and die for him, but he doesn’t think he can do that. 

It feels too fast. He feels himself leaning back to catch Connor’s eyes anyway, judging his expression by the slight upturn of his lips and brow. His cheeks are red again, bright with a blush that makes him look even younger, and Hank feels dirty. He’s suddenly hyper aware of Connor’s fingers in his hair and his hands on Connor’s ribcage, their proximity making it hard not to notice how Connor trembles slightly under his palms. He realizes belatedly that Connor is terrified and hiding it behind a smile, trying desperately to fend off rejection from the one person he’s ever had a deep connection with. 

Hank caves then. He can’t keep fighting when Connor only wants to feel, to be loved and know what it’s like to love in return. He’s tried so hard recently to draw that line in the sand and keep it from being blown away by the winds of change but he can’t anymore. Life is too fleeting. They could both end up dead tomorrow: Connor gets disassembled by angry protestors or Hank finds the one perp with lucky aim. It could all come crashing down around them and he wouldn’t have known what it was like to finally feel like a whole person again, to feel like he didn’t have to judge his worth by a picture and a gun. 

He tips Connor’s chin with a finger and watches for anything that tells him to stop as he leans forward. Connor’s eyes flutter closed, and this close, Hank can count the moles and freckles dotting his face like constellations. He pushes past the distraction and presses his lips to Connor’s, only mildly shocked at their warmth. 

Connor awkwardly returns the kiss, and before Hank’s eyes close, he spots Connor’s LED blinking from blue to yellow to a soft red. Connor’s fingers dig into the lapels of Hank’s jacket, a breath escaping from his nose as tension suddenly melts from him. Hank feels him relax under his hands as he draws Connor closer, directing one of Connor’s knees around his hip as the android shifts to sit partially in his lap. 

Hank refuses to let it go an farther than kissing, but the heat coiling in his belly is nice enough that he lets Connor take his fill. Connor learns quickly, his lips peppering sweet, chaste kisses to Hank’s mouth as he turns his head to take in a breath. Hank holds him as Connor leans back, allowing them to separate as Connor chooses, his warmth a comfortable weight in his lap as the knot between Connor’s brows fades away. 

He looks - content. Happy. Hank feels his heart thundering in his ears, a bass drum beat against his sternum that he’s sure Connor can hear. He presses his own palm to Connor’s chest and feels his own heart beating a quick brand into his skin. Connor smiles at him, small and still somewhat guarded. Hank brushes his fingers through Connor’s hair to straighten it, suddenly feeling like any and all boundaries between them have been shattered. 

“You sure picked a hell of a person to get attached to,” Hank wonders idly. His chest still swells with a warmth that he never wants to see fade away, but the thought nags at him, incessant. “Are you sure this is alright?”

Connor leans forward and kisses him again, a short thing that Hank barely has time to react to before he’s pulling away again. The smile on his face is teasing, an expression Hank is more used to seeing on his features. It sends a bolt of joy up his spine, seeing Connor so emotive after watching him sit in silence all day. 

“I don’t think I had a choice in picking,” Connor says. “I think maybe I ended up with the right person at the right time.”

Great. Hank sighs, a grin still on his face. He hauls Connor up to his feet and takes him into his arms properly, memorising the weight of him against his chest, the feeling of his fingers at the nape of his neck and the way he whispers “Thank you, Hank” so softly that Hank isn’t sure he hears it. He doesn’t want to let go, something inside him screaming at him to take Connor to bed and show him how much he means to him. But he stamps that part of himself down, a million questions raising and clogging his brain. Now isn’t the time. There may never be a time. Connor is too important to rush so quickly into something he may not fully understand. 

Besides, he’s happy enough that Connor is here as he is. They don’t leave the couch for the rest of the day, Hank too restless to let him go and Connor content to be as he is. Not once does Hank feel the itch to drink, too happy to rest in the small amount of respite he’s found. He soaks it up while he can, knowing that tomorrow may not hold so much comfort, that everything he knows could change on a pinhead. He knows all too well how quickly the world can move, and when they lay down that night, facing each other, Connor’s stasis mode kicking in only when Hank has sufficiently kissed him to sleep, he doesn’t know how right he’s gonna be. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes hello i am here to ruin all of your lives now

He doesn’t want to take it any farther than kissing, but Connor has other ideas.

Hank finds out that Connor  _ really _ likes kissing. He says it’s something to do with many of his subdermal sensors being switched on now that he has full control of his systems, but Hank doesn’t pretend to understand what does and doesn’t feel good to an android. He knows what feels good for  _ him _ , so he figures it’ll be fine for Connor, too.

Which, yeah. Understatement of the year. Hank should really give up gambling; though if this is the outcome, he can’t fault himself for trying. 

“I’m glad this is the weekend,” Hank murmurs against Connor’s lips. “I really don’t think I could keep your punk ass under control at the station.”

Connor huffs an amused laugh. “You say that as if I’d allow that to happen.”

“You literally haven’t left me alone since we got home two days ago.”

“An over exaggeration,” Connor says flippantly. To emphasize his point, he uncurls his arms from around Hank’s shoulders, allowing the older man his freedom if he wanted it. 

Hank snorts and presses a kiss to Connor’s jaw. The feeling is still strange, that he gets to do this so freely. It feels nice to be wanted, though, and while he’d tried to keep their affections as above the belt as he could, he could feel how much Connor ached for him too - and that feeling in itself was oddly satisfying. The people at Cyberlife apparently never cut corners, and while Hank enjoyed the idea of maybe someday soon getting a bit more intimate with Connor, the image of someone sitting down and designing and writing code for an android’s cock wasn’t something he wanted to dwell too much on.

Besides, Connor enjoyed himself despite it. He learned quickly what he liked and didn’t like, with hands that were just as curious as his mouth. He learned boundaries too, where and when to stop when Hank grew uncomfortable. Hank resented himself for stopping but he wanted to preserve this part of their relationship, but not out of some virtuous morality to keep Connor “pure” or whatever other bullshit he could come up with as an excuse.

No. It was his own self doubt and anxiety preventing that next step, blooming hesitation and his body image getting the better of him. He knew what he looked like and what Connor must think of him. Maybe this was just Connor’s way of humoring him, even if he used the word  _ love  _ the other day. This could all be an elaborate ru -

“You think too hard,” Connor says, startling Hank out of his thoughts. Hank grunts and shoves Connor’s shoulder, hardly surprised the android barely moves from his place halfway atop Hank while they lie in bed.

“Says the actual, literal supercomputer,” Hank grumbles. 

“Yes, that’s what I said.” Connor smiles when Hank turns his glare on him. “It’s alright to feel confused. I’m confused quite a lot, actually.”

“Yeah, but that’s expected,” Hank says. “I’ve been around the block a couple times, Connor. I didn’t just wake up one day with feelings and a conscience and a libido. I kinda lived through some of this.”

Connor shrugs one shoulder. “Then we’ll learn together.”

He says it so confidently that Hank almost believes him. Connor usually isn’t so plain as far as his shortcomings go - he prefers to dance away from them and absorb as much as he can before making a calculated move. His ability to switch gears and provide comfort where he’s unsure himself draws Hank closer to him, pulling their bodies together with Hank’s hands on his slim waist.

Connor snakes his arms around him again and kisses him, slow and sweet. Hank forgets about his body image and his anxiety, the uncertainty in his gut boiling away as he ventures closer, pressing his tongue along the seam of Connor’s lips. The hungry sigh that escapes Connor is nearly enough for Hank to give in, and for several long minutes, he nearly does.

He hooks one hand under Connor’s knee and brings it over his hip as he presses Connor’s back into the sheets. The android sighs again, his hips rolling up into Hank’s on an instinct Hank didn’t know he had. The friction is hot, building into a familiar weight low in Hank’s belly. He follows that ache with his tongue and his hands, slipping his palms underneath Connor’s loose sleeping shirt to feel at the soft skin of his hips and back.

Connor squirms at the contact, then breathes a laugh into their kiss when Hank pokes him in the ribs. He jerks away, back arching under Hank, his fingers tight in Hank’s hair as he tries to get away from Hank’s curious hands.

“What?” Hank laughs. “Now you’re ticklish?”

Connor calms, his body settling under Hank again, though his smile is still wide and warm.

“I had to turn down the sensitivity,” he says, slightly breathless. 

“Aw. Killing all the fun, kid.”

Connor kisses him again, the leg over Hank’s hip pulling their hips together again. Hank is suddenly aware of his erection straining against his pajama pants and the yearning building under his ribs to undress Connor and take that step they both obviously want. He allows Connor to kiss him and take his fill, his graceful hands carding through Hanks hair and down his back, across his shoulders and over the sides of his face. 

Hank soaks in the attention as much as he gives it to Connor. His kisses become languid as he laps into Connor’s mouth, the sounds of their kissing and shortened breath filling the room. He runs his hands up Connor’s hips and sides, taking in the feeling of his warm skin against his rough palms. Connor breathes a shuddering sigh and tips his head back against the pillow, and Hank takes the invitation for what it is.

He sucks a soft kiss under the hinge of Connor’s jaw, only slightly amazed the skin there reddens from the abuse when he pulls away. Connor melts under the attention, suddenly going boneless as his eyes flutter closed and his fingers loosen from Hank’s shirt. Hank takes that as his cue to back off, the desire in his gut settling only a little when Connor doesn’t follow him. 

“That’s enough for now,” he murmurs. Connor’s LED spins yellow, blinking rapidly as he blinks up at the ceiling. Hank raises a brow and only barely contains his laugh as he places a chaste kiss against Connor’s LED and rolls off the bed to lock up the house.

“Thank you,” Connor murmurs when Hank returns to bed. His hands seek Hank above the sheets - Hank bundles him up against his chest, taking comfort in Connor finding his own comfort in him.

“You have nothing to worry about, Connor.”

Connor hums. “Except for your eating habits. And drinking habits. And lack of exercise. And you -“

“Alright, Robocop,” Hank grunts. Connor stifles a laugh and relaxes in his arms, LED shifting from blue to yellow to red. Hank rolls his eyes as Connor suddenly goes limp, the terminal next to the bed droning its announcement that “RK800 serial number-“ blah blah blah has successfully entered stasis. 

He idly wishes sleep would find him just as easily. His brain doesn’t get long to lament it as he drops off, his dreams formless, Connor safe beside him.

 

1010101

 

“The fuck are you two doing at my crime scene?”

Hank slides down the icy bank with little more than a glance at Reed. Connor is a bit more graceful behind him, balanced as his shoes skid through the snow. Hank holds a hand out to steady him as he slips near the bottom of the shoulder of the road, smiling briefly when Connor murmurs a thank you. 

“Believe it or not, we are still homicide detectives,” Connor quips. Reed snorts and turns back around to Chris at his side, his arms crossed against the breeze whistling through the bare trees. 

Hank frowns. Anger cracks under his skin as Reed continues to ignore Connor. He allows it to take over as he circles the yellow tape around the edges of the crime scene, passing through it when he finally catches a glimpse of Reed’s face.

“He was talking to you,” Hank snaps. 

“And I decided not to listen,” Reed shoots back. Chris shifts uncomfortably next to him, his eyes glancing between Reed and Hank. 

“It’s fine, Lieutenant,” Connor says. Hank turns as Connor steps around him into the yellow tape, his eyes on the evidence spread out ahead of them. His LED briefly blinks yellow before settling on cool blue again. “If he wishes to remain obstinate around his coworkers, we cannot force him to do otherwise.” 

Chris snorts a laugh - Hank cracks a nasty smile as Reed rounds on him with a glare. 

“Just look around and get the fuck out of here,” Reed says. Chris raises his hands as Reed turns on his heel and retreats back to his patrol car on the road. “I’m not gonna stand here and freeze my balls off while your plastic boy toy sniffs around  _ my _ crime scene.”

Hank rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say,  _ Detective _ .” 

Reed grumbles but doesn’t say anything else. Hank takes his place at Chris’ side and crosses his arms, nodding to Chris in greeting with a softer smile than he afforded Reed.

“It’s not his crime scene, by the way,” Chris says quietly. 

“I figured. Fowler?”

“Yeah.” Chris adjusts his holopad in his gloved hands and gestures to the crime scene at large. “Not as interesting as the case you and Connor are stuck on, but it’s pretty gruesome. Fowler isn’t playing around with the no tolerance laws, either, so I think he’d rather have yours and Connor’s eyes on this rather than Reed’s.”

Hank nods in understanding. The FBI was breathing down Fowler’s neck to crack down on android hate crimes, so it made sense to steer the two people responsible for bringing about change to the department in the direction of trouble. At first he thought this was a form of punishment - who wanted to work with  _ the  _ deviant responsible for their world turning upside down? - but the overwhelming buzz of officers around each crime scene he and Connor are assigned to showed him otherwise. The department, while initially reluctant, had turned coat rather quickly. The smiles and friendly touches to Connor and Hank’s shoulders was enough to set Hank at ease.

The scene in front of him, however, sent his stomach churning. Chris grimaces alongside him and flips through a couple sheets of notes on his holopad; Hank is jealous of his distraction.

“The android is registered as Maxwell,” Chris reads. “He’s a private housework unit that wasn’t reported missing until yesterday. The family that owned him smuggled him out of the city when the military moved in, so they had his LED on hand when we vid-called them about an hour ago. Other than that, there are no parts missing. Everything is accounted for, albeit spread out around an area of thirty yards next to the road.”

Hank catalogs the scene as Chris talks, picking out pieces of the android’s chassis and biocomponents sitting atop the snow like gruesome breadcrumbs. Connor is on the other end of the yellow tape, kneeling in the snow next to the dead android’s disembodied torso. His bare, white hand is extended out over Maxwell’s face in an attempt at a rudimentary data transfer. His LED blinks yellow rapidly in the grey morning light reflecting off the snow. 

Thirium paints the area like a morbid expressionist masterpiece, puddling in frozen patches around the disassembled biocomponents and body parts across the area. The dark blue isn’t as unsettling as human blood would be, but it’s still clearly blood, and still having an effect on everyone around the body. Hank stoops to examine what looks like a thirium scrubber near him, slipping on gloves before he picks it up to turn it around.

“We have an idea of who did this?” Hank asks.

Chris makes a noncommittal noise. “We have a set of tire tracks on the road that the ice preserved overnight. They’re older model, probably a pre-autonomous vehicle. CSI is running the tracks right now so you have a lead.”

Hank hums in response. He drops the thirium scrubber back into the snow and carefully picks his way over to Connor, mentally cataloguing the pattern of body parts strewn across the snow. But the pattern breaks when he reaches Connor’s side and looks back on the crime scene.

“He dragged himself here,” Hank realizes. 

Connor nods and straightens, knocking snow off his slacks. “Yes. He was probably thrown closer to the road, then dragged himself farther back as someone chased him. His legs and pelvic cage were taken apart as he moved in this direction until his thirium lines bled out.”

Connor grimaces, his eyes following the furled trail of snow the android had kicked up while moving to his final resting place. Hank rests a hand on Connor’s wrist, squeezing, only speaking when Connor eventually turns to look at him.

“We’ll find who did this,” Hank says quietly.

Connor nods jerkily. He blinks back a wetness in his eyes that he quickly hides by turning back towards the crime scene. “He bled out quickly.”

“Is it his death that bothers you so much?” Hank suddenly asks.

Connor blinks at him. His brow furrows, his expression tightening in a way that tells Hank he’s hiding something. Hank raises a brow and waits. 

Connor’s mouth twitches before all the tension bleeds out of his posture. He shakes his head, eyes unfocusing as he turns his attention inward.

“No,” he says. He sounds tired and sad, and when Hank takes a few steps around him to stand directly in front of him, he can see that sadness reflecting back at him in Connor’s dark eyes. Connor flicks his gaze up to him and holds it. “I caused this, Hank.”

Hank sighs and shakes his head. He should have known this is what Connor’s expensive fucking brain would come up with.

“You  _ freed _ them, Connor,” Hank says, hard. He holds a finger under Connor’s chin to keep him from turning away. “It was hard and shitty, and maybe you were almost too late. But people’s prejudices are out of your control, and no amount of guilting yourself will make them stop until we start changing minds.”

“And how am I supposed to do that when they keep dying?”

Hank presses a hand to Connor’s shoulder and kneads his fingers into it, keeping Connor grounded. “You fight. Like you always have. And we show these sons of bitches who’s boss.”

That puts a grin, no matter how small, on Connor’s face. Hank hopes his body hides the small press of his lips to Connor’s knuckles, hyper aware of Chris chatting with a group of officers up on the road and the slew of CSI agents still combing the crime scene. The show of affection calms them both, though, and when they split again to circle the rest of the area, no one pays them any mind.

Connor climbs the shoulder back up to the road when he’s satisfied with his comb over the evidence. Chris and three other officers Hank doesn’t recognize quiet their conversation when they approach, but out of respect or fear for Connor, Hank doesn’t know. He bristles anyway, preparing for whatever they have to say. 

“I could not find any traces of fingerprints or other human DNA on the body,” Connor announces. Chris nods and types on his holopad, adding to his notes. “I connected briefly to Maxwell’s backup memory CPU and pulled up some images you may want forensics to take a look at. May I?”

He holds out his hand as his skin peels away. Chris holds out the holopad, and they all watch quietly as Connor interfaces with it briefly, LED blinking as he uploads the images he pulled from Maxwell to Chris’ notes. Chris takes back the holopad when Connor drops his hand and flicks through them. Hank watches from the reverse side of the screen while the other three officers peer over Chris’ shoulder.

“These are from last night?” Chris asks, incredulous. He holds the pad out to Hank and Hank takes it, slowly flipping through the pictures.

“Correct,” Connor says. “At approximately 11:02 pm, this android was being dismembered by three men. I collected the base GPS and internal clock data from Maxwell as well. He was brought here intact from an inner city dwelling.”

Hank grimaces. The pictures aren’t much - they’re mostly flashes of Maxwell’s legs and the agitated snow around him as he tries to get away. In the last image are three shadowy figures haloed by foglights of what appears to be an off roading vehicle, its roll cage poking out into the darkness of the forest around it. Hank can barely make it out, and neither can he identify any of the three blurry humanoid figures in the foreground. He chews on the inside of his cheek as he hands it back to Chris, his thoughts racing. 

“You got all that information from a dead android?” one of the three unknown officers says. Hank glances down to his chest and watches as his holographic badge switches from the American flag to his name: Jefferson.

Connor blinks warily at Jefferson’s question. People like to ask redundant questions to androids in the hopes of embarrassing them, but Hank doesn’t sense that from this particular officer. Usually it’s people like Reed that ask these questions, and Reed is too busy harassing one of the CSI agents to notice Hank and Connor doing his work for him.

“Yes,” Connor answers. He flexes his fingers, itching for something to fiddle with. “Even the oldest models of androids have the ability to store memory on their hard drives that can be accessed later. The data doesn’t simply go away once they power down. Though, now that many androids are deviant, their memories my form more organically and be harder to recover. Maxwell… wanted this information to be found.”

Jefferson hums in amazement. “That’s pretty cool. And helpful. Thanks for explaining, Connor.”

Hank feels the tension leave his body. Connor smiles, small and honest. He nods, the little curl of hair atop his head falling over his forehead. Hank has to resist the urge to reach up and fold it back to where Connor likes it.

Then Chris’ radio bleeps, startling them all from the quiet of the woods around them. Hank swallows the heat in his throat and listens in, old habits kicking in as Chris responds with his badge number, patrol number, and location before the dispatcher on the radio continues.

_ “CSI confirmed the tire tracks several minutes ago,”  _ the dispatcher says, her voice smooth even over the static of the radio.  _ “Repeat and send Detectives Anderson and Connor to the station.” _

“Repeat,” Chris copies, a grin on his face. Hank returns it and salutes all of them.

“Duty calls,” he says. “Thanks for your help, gentlemen.”

“Our pleasure,” one of the officers says. They all wave as Hank turns and unlocks his cruiser, assorted goodbyes following him. Hank is halfway into the car when he notices Connor hasn’t followed him.

He watches as Chris, Jefferson, and the other two officers shake Connor’s hand enthusiastically. Connor awkwardly smiles at them and waves goodbye before carefully climbing into the car with Hank, his expression schooled into a grin for as long as it takes for Hank to back them up and turn them around. It drops immediately when the tinted back windows are facing their coworkers, the tension melting out of him as Connor collapses fully into the seat.

“They say somethin’?” Hank asks warily. 

Connor nods. “They… thanked me. For changing their minds on androids.” 

He sounds scared, his tone soft like it had been when Hank held his gun to his head in the park. That night Connor had shivered in the cold and told the truth: that he didn’t want to die, that if he had he didn’t think there was anything waiting for him in the other side. Connor had shown emotion and deviancy early in their partnership, but seeing his eyes so full of fear and uncertainty, watching a man who didn’t need to shield himself from the cold but did anyway because he  _ felt  _ it - that had been all it took for Hank. 

He understood that fear like he understands it now. Connor knows so much and still knows very little, his limits boundless and small at the same time. Hank reaches across the center console and squeezes Connor’s knee, hoping the contact is enough of a comfort.

“You changed my mind,” Hank says. “Changing theirs was a walk in the park. Believe it or not, a majority of the station likes you. It was only a couple people like Reed that hated your guts. Everyone else turned quickly after they saw that footage from Cyberlife.”

Which, yeah, had been pretty badass of Connor to do. Cyberlife had been ordered to release all assets and information they held to be reviewed by the senate in detail, and that information included Connor’s subterfuge into Cyberlife. It aired nonstop for a few days after the evacuation was lifted, and while Hank had been there - albeit unwillingly - it was different seeing it from a near objective position.

The other Connor had threatened Hank into going, so he never knew or saw his Connor until the standoff in the android warehouse. Watching Connor calmly be led to his potential death and then fighting - and killing - for his freedom had been more than liberating. He’d been ecstatic, proud, scared, and everything in between. Knowing Connor helped, but he knew people would see what he had seen. He knew the people around them would see that Connor was more than what he was made to be.

Connor seems to understand what Hank is getting at after a couple minutes of driving down the windy forestry road back to the main inlet to Detroit. He shifts in his seat and sits up straighter, suddenly turning a wry grin on Hank that immediately sets Hank’s heart racing.

“They also wanted to throw a party at our house to celebrate my badge,” Connor says. “Over the weekend, but they left no room for argument.”

Hank sputters. “You  _ what?  _ I don’t want them at my house! Connor!”

Connor’s smile turns mischievous. “I already ordered food to be delivered. We better clean up Friday if you don’t want to embarrass yourself.”

“Your mood swings are going to be the fucking death of me, you smartass fucking android,” Hank mutters. He takes the next turn harder than necessary, only barely concerned when the traction control kicks in with a screech of one of the tires braking. Connor rocks in his seat but the grin doesn’t leave his face. Hank drags a hand over his eyes and massages his temple, flicking his gaze from Connor to the road.

“Fucking androids,” he mutters again. Connor turns on the radio and fidgets with his quarter all the way back to the station. Hank fumes the whole drive, only keeping his thoughts to himself because Connor is so happy now.

Fuck. Now what is he supposed to do? He doesn’t  _ do  _ get togethers. He can hardly entertain Connor. What was he supposed to do with a house full of people he can barely stand?

“You’ll think of something,” Connor supplies helpfully. Hank smacks his arm, barely having the semblance of mind to realize he said that last train of thought aloud. Connor smacks him back, though not as hard as Hank had. Hank can’t fight the smile off his face and spends the rest of the drive in comfortable silence, basking in Connor’s warmth.

 

1010101

 

“The tracks belong to a 2018 Dodge Ram Laramie,” the CSI agent, Zaya, says. She flips her dark hair over her shoulder and carefully pulls out a couple sheets of paper from a file on her desk, laying them out for Hank and Connor to see. 

Images of the tire pattern in the ice on the road flip idly on two pieces of paper, while the other displays the tire dimensions, the truck’s make, model, VIN, body package, and other pertinent information in a compact list. Hank skims it until he gets to the license number and plate number, memorizing it with a quick glance.

“Do we know who owns it?” Connor asks.

Zaya nods. “We ran the plate and found a Robert Burk. It’s currently registered to his son, Ryan, with the insurance also in his name. No accidents, but the vehicle is old enough that any work done on it probably wasn’t through its dealership, so we can only tell you its stock color and body type.”

Hank shrugs and straightens. “It’s more than enough. Have the address sent to our car’s computer and we’ll go question Robert and Ryan Burk.”

Zaya nods, and when they return to the cruiser idling on the curb, the truck’s address is already displayed on the GPS. Hank waggles his brow at Connor and follows it, only slightly surprised that the neighborhood it takes them to is similar to the one that AX400 disappeared from several weeks earlier.

Older houses with older vehicles parked in their driveways line the snowy streets, some better kept than others. The truck they’re looking for is easy to find with its ridiculous rack of lights on top of the cab and the rollcage extending out into the truck’s bed. Hank parks their unmarked cruiser in front of the driveway with the truck and carefully gets out, motioning for Connor to keep behind him.

“If they run,” Hank says quietly as they crunch up the frozen sidewalk to the front door, “you run like hell after them. I’ll call backup and follow you.”

Connor’s voice is equally quiet behind him. “Got it, Lieutenant.” 

Hank squares his shoulders and knocks on the hardwood door when they reach the porch. A dog barks somewhere in the house at the noise, its nails scratching against wood floors as it scrambles to the door. Hank waits as the dog barks for another couple moments before knocking again, hard this time, his knuckles burning from the impact.

“This is Detroit Police!” he shouts at the door. The dog continues barking, incessant. “We have a couple questions for a Robert and Ryan Burk!”

Footsteps stomp through the house before stopping at the door. A male voice hushes the dog and pulls it away from the door - the dog whimpers and scurries away somewhere that Hank can no longer hear. A beat passes, two, and then the door cracks open, revealing only a sliver of a man standing behind it.

“Who are you?” the man asks, annoyed.

Hank doesn’t bother smiling. Connor tensing beside him is enough information he needs to know this is one of the people they’re looking for. 

“I’m Lieutenant Hank Anderson with DPD, and this is Detective Connor.” Hank motions between him and Connor at his side - the man behind the door opens it just a little more, revealing his face as he warily glances between the two of them. Hank continues, keeping his eyes trained on the man’s face, committing to memory his light skin and hair, his agitated green eyes and the fresh bruise on one low cheek.

“We have some questions about an android that was found dead and disassembled outside the city. We have reason to believe whoever owns this truck in your driveway was involved.”

The man lets the door rock completely open as Hank speaks. His unsteady stare never leaves Connor, sweeping him up and down, assessing in a way that sets Hank’s already alert nerves on edge. The air between them suddenly changes, an electric spark lighting the energy already high with tension. Hank feels the shift in Connor’s posture right before he springs after the man that takes off down the hallway behind him - Hank, to his credit, doesn’t fumble his phone as he quickly thumbs the contact for dispatch and jerks it up to his ear.

“Dispatch, this is Detective 4361 at 14 Golden Yard Avenue. I have Detective 800 in pursuit of a suspect on foot and am requesting backup to my location,” he shouts into the phone as he follows Connor’s jacket tails into the back of the house. He rounds the end of the hallway and races through the kitchen through the open back door, watching as Connor clambers over the back fence effortlessly and take off after the escaping suspect into the back alley. Dispatch confirms Hank’s location in his ear as he turns back down through the house and slams the front door shut, clambering into his cruiser as quickly as he can without dropping his phone.

He throws the car into gear and speeds down the slick road in the direction Connor went in. He spots Connor’s pale suit against the darker colors of a house down the street and rounds the corner after him, flipping on his lights and sirens as he does. He chirps at another car in his lane, speeding past it as it pulls over, barely catching the turn down the next street that runs parallel to the cramped alley he saw Connor disappear down. The car engine growls as he fights not to floor it around the light traffic in the neighborhood, only mindful now because a wreck would slow him in his pursuit of his android.

The tires squeal something awful as he slams on the brakes to block the end of the alley. He kicks open the door and yanks out his weapon just in time to catch the suspect slamming Connor into a dumpster twenty yards away. The android’s forehead comes away bright blue as the suspect pulls Connor back by the shoulders and kicks him behind the knees, knocking him down. 

“Put your hands where I can see them!” Hank shouts. He sees red, everything in him boiling with anger as the suspect yanks Connor’s head back by his hair and produces a knife from his pocket. Hank shouts again, warning him that he will not hesitate to fire, but the suspect ignores him as he forcibly pulls Connor up to his feet and positions him between himself and Hank, using Connor as a shield.

“Come any closer and this goes straight into his thirium pump regulator!” the suspects yells. He flips open the knife in his left hand, revealing a three inch steel blade. Hank grimaces, his thoughts racing, his hands itching to squeeze the trigger. 

The suspect starts to walk backwards, Connor in tow, the knife coming up to press against Connor’s ribs in a blatant threat for Hank to stay put. Connor raises his hands when the suspect hisses something at him, and even from a distance Hank can see Connor struggling to comply. The android’s movements are sluggish, his steps dragging through the grey, slushy snow in the alley, thirium bleeding from a sizeable gash above his right eye and his nose. It drips onto his cream-colored jacket and vest and streams in a garish line down his throat to soak into the collar of his shirt, flowing way too quickly for it to be anything but lethal. Hank takes a step forward, his body screaming at him to move, but then the suspect takes the knife in his hand and sinks it into the left side of Connor’s ribcage.

Connor shouts in agony and stumbles backwards as his hands come down to the knife in reflex. Hank’s heart pulls at the sound, his hands shaking, his thoughts racing for him to save Connor, to throw caution and his job to the wind and gun this guy down. But the suspects yanks Connor back to his feet and pulls the knife out of his ribs with a sickening crunch, holding it back up to Connor as it drips thirium.

Sirens blare in the distance as the truck that led them here backs into the other side of the alley. It hits a trash can and topples a stack of pallets as it screeches to a halt not too far from where the suspect is now bodily hauling Connor as he sags against him, his expression dazed. A man with a similar hair color and complexion as the main suspect practically sprints out of the passenger side of the truck, then helps him manipulate Connor into the back seat. They scramble in after him as Hank squeezes the trigger with abandon, aiming for the rear tires as it takes off down the alley and into the next street in a cloud of kicked up snow and exhaust. 

Hank whips around and scrambles for the radio in the cruiser, barely containing the anger and heartache in his voice as he relays everything back to dispatch and any surrounding units in the area.

“This is Detective 4361 in pursuit of Detective 800 and the suspect believed to have murdered an android outside of town,” he pants. His eyes water and he has to bite out his next words, willing them not to be real even as he speaks them into existence. “Detective - Detective 800 has been injured and taken by at least three suspects in a dark colored 2018 Dodge Ram Laramie. Plate number is 83D5RC. Requesting CSI at previous address and current location, and pursuit of escaping vehicle.”

Dispatch is quiet on the other end, but several responding units are not. Chris’ voice is among several that Hank picks out among the chaos that erupts over the radio, and that, at least, doesn’t make Hank feel so alone in the whirlwind of events that just took place in front of him.

“ _ TAKEN?!”  _ Chris shouts over the comms. “ _ Injured?! Hank, what the fuck happened?” _

Another unit pipes in, this time a voice Hank didn’t think he would hear even in a situation like this.

_ “We can’t find him, Anderson. That truck just fucking disappeared,”  _ Reed says. Hank swallows bile in his throat and leans his head against the cool metal roof of the patrol car, willing the world to stop spinning for once. 

_ “Hank,”  _ Chris says.  _ “We’re almost there. You okay?” _

Hank shakes his head. He presses the button to activate the microphone, trying to find something to say. When he closes his eyes he just sees blood on Connor’s clothes and his face, his movements jerky as if his processors can’t keep up with what he’s telling them what to do. Hank squeezes the memory from his eyes and focuses on the crowd of residents gathering across the street. 

“He’s gone,” he says simply into the radio. Sirens grow louder around him, their screams bleeding together like a discordant melody. He drops the comm into the passenger seat and pops the trunk, hauling out the folding poles that project a perimeter. He sets them aside on the sidewalk and waits for the others to arrive, staring blankly down the alley Connor had disappeared down, his eyes finding the splatters of thirium across the dirty snow all too easily. 

“He’s gone,” he says again, all energy draining out of him. He’s gone, and now Hank isn’t sure he’s ever going to get him back.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was going to torture all of you by waiting to post this but i want to get the angst over as quickly as you all do so here you go!

_.//System REBOOT. Waiting on backup CPU... _

_.//Backup CPU powered on. System check initiated. _

_.//BIOS = OK _

_.//Main CPU = OK _

_.//AI Engine = OK _

_.//Memory array = OK _

_.//Quantum backup battery = OK, 34% charge remaining _

_.//Live connection to secured network = DISCONNECTED _

_.//Live connection to DPD = DISCONNECTED _

_.//Biocomponents = CRITICAL ERROR _

_.//DAMAGED BIOCOMPONENTS: #8762w, #2853a, #6610a, #8245y _

_.//CATASTROPHIC ERROR TO SYSTEMS: THIRIUM LEAKAGE, CRANIAL TRAUMA, INTERNAL THIRIUM LINE SEVERED, THORACIC BODY CAVITY EXPOSED TO ATMOSPHERE  _

_.//SYSTEM IN LOW POWER MODE. PLEASE SEEK NEAREST TECHNICIAN TO AVOID CATASTROPHIC SYSTEM FAILURE. TIME UNTIL SHUTDOWN: -00:04:45:56. _

_.//INITIALIZING... _

Connor jerks awake. His vision blurs momentarily before he blinks it away, adjusting as hard as he can without damaging anything else. While not blurry any longer, his vision is still grey around the edges, as if the part of his CPU in charge of decoding color signals quit partway into rendering the image. He tries to force it to return to normal but that only makes his head throb harder with a powerful headache, so he gives up, resigned to seeing everything half in color and half in greyscale.

Thankfully, the damage to his vision doesn’t affect clarity. He blinks around the room curiously, taking in his vantage point from where he’s propped up against something on the floor in relation to everything else in the room. A couch and loveseat are angled across from him, with a decorated bookshelf behind that next to a dark hallway leading to closed rooms. To his right is a kitchen with a dining table in between, the chairs askew as if someone had gotten up in a hurry. To his left is a sliding glass door with a dog bed near it, the glass revealing a yard with snow encrusting the grass. He blinks, the pattern of the dog bed suddenly familiar. Then he jerks his head around again, taking everything in like before, only this time his heart rate jumps and a warning blares in his vision that he should calm down now that the thirium leakage is worse.

This is Amy Wick’s house. The room is dark without any lights on and it’s slightly disheveled like it’d been gone through, but he recognizes the layout and the carefully matched furniture. He tries to stand but that thirium warning screams at him again, blocking a good portion of his vision with its blinking red text. He grimaces and stills, minimizing the error, noting his shutdown time went from four hours to three with just his attempts at standing.

So, no standing, then. He takes in everything else, noting his open jacket, vest, and shirt revealing his pried open chassis. His pump regulator is intact, thankfully, and his heart is as well, though he really only knows it instead of visually confirming it. The smaller pieces to his chassis that didn’t survive being broken open lay at his side, and when he shifts just slightly to be in a more upright position, he finds a thin thirium line had been manipulated and severed from his circulatory system and left to drip outside onto the carpet. 

He grimaces and shuts down the flow to that particular part of his system. He can’t do the same to the gash in his forehead and the crack in his nose - loss of blood flow to his face would cause errors to his CPU that he doesn’t want to deal with - so he lets them be. He does turn down the pain sensors that keep screaming at him, not turning them completely off, but dialing them all down to a dull ache in his system instead of a jerking, burning pain.

He blinks against the living room light flickering on suddenly above him. The suspect he chased earlier - Robert Burk, his memory supplies - steps into the room with Amy ahead of him, her arm bent behind her as he manipulates her with it. 

He shoves her forward and she stumbles, barely catching herself on the edge of the couch before she falls to the carpet. “Keep it alive,” Robert says, “and don’t try anything. We can’t move until the sun goes down.”

Amy doesn’t say anything. She jerks her head in a nod and slowly digs in a drawer in a cabinet next to Connor, bringing out IV bags of thirium and plastic tubing with a needle on the end. He scans them out of habit, noting the production date along with the bruising on Amy’s arms and face. He frowns at her when she kneels next to him on the carpet, uncaring as the thirium-soaked carpet seeps into her slacks.

Amy waits until Robert leaves the room before she turns Connor’s face more towards her. “Are your systems okay?” she says quietly.

Connor blinks and shakes his head. “No. Shutdown is estimated at three hours and forty-five minutes.”

“Fuck,” Amy curses. She carefully balances a bag of thirium on the entertainment center behind him and pierces it with one end of the plastic tubing. She holds it out until the liquid fills the tube and then holds out the needle to him.

“Can you tell me where to put this?” she asks. “I had these in case he got hurt and didn’t want to return to Cyberlife, but I… I really don’t know what to do here.”

Connor blinks again. He feels almost like he’s having an out of body experience, like he’s standing over himself and Amy, watching as he slowly bleeds out on her carpet. He runs a quick diagnostic and takes the needle from her hand, reaching into his chest with it and pointing approximately to where he wants her to insert the needle.

“There is a corded thirium line that runs parallel my spinal column,” he says. “Please be careful not to pierce too hard. The smaller the hole, the less likely there will be a leak.”

She nods shakily and follows his instructions. It feels more than weird to have hands inside his chest cavity, aware of just how exposed the more delicate of his biocomponents are. His heart beats a staccato rhythm that he can actually hear in the otherwise quiet room - the pace quickens when Amy inserts the needle into his thirium line and his system jump-starts with the sudden influx of blue blood.

. _ //CATASTROPHIC SYSTEM FAILURE. TIME UNTIL SHUTDOWN: -00:06:32:22 _

“Is that okay?” Amy asks uncertainly, retrieving her hands from his chest. 

Connor nods shakily. He blinks away the warning and minimizes the timer to the bottom right of his vision again.

“Yes. Thank you.” She scrubs at her face with her sleeve, tears beginning to fall down her cheeks. He reaches a hand out to her weakly, holding it out palm up for her to take. She does, her smile watery.

“Do you know why I’m here?” he continues. “Why they’re here?”

She grips his hand in hers like it’s her only lifeline. “Yes. It’s because of William and the other androids you were looking into. They said they killed William. That I - that it was  _ my _ fault he was dead.”

Connor can’t keep up. It was her fault? They admitted to her to killing William, Nathan, and Arthur? Why would they do that and then hold them both hostage? Isn’t that a little sloppy?

Amy chokes back a sob. Connor squeezes her hand, focusing on that one point of contact that doesn’t hurt. 

“Something about this isn’t right,” he tells her. Amy sniffles and nods along, her dark hair shielding part of her face like a curtain. “Did hey say why they left me disassembled?”

Amy swallows thickly. “Uh, so they could hurt you easier. I think they’re waiting ‘till dark to move us.”

“Us?”

“Yeah. They want both of us. In case people won’t hesitate to kill you, they have me as more reliable, uh, collateral.”

She grimaces at the word. Connor feels his mouth twitch into a frown and glances around the room again, trying to scan as much as possible. His scanner array doesn’t want to cooperate, but he forces it to understand what he can’t readily see. He finds partial fingerprints on Amy’s arm and several wet footprints on the hardwood in the kitchen. He picks up slight conversation in another room but can’t make out who is talking or what is being talked about - Amy follows his stare into the back hallway, her crying calm for now.

“Is there any way I can reconnect to the network?” Connor asks softly. Amy turns back around and shakes her head,

“No. They put something like a jammer in the kitchen. It looks like a router, but when they all gathered around to talk, I heard one of them say that nothing can “get out” now.”

“Is it plugged into the wall?” 

She shakes her head again.

A battery, then. Probably not military grade, but sophisticated enough that he might not be able to walk Amy through disabling it. Not that he could connect to the ‘net and figure it out anyway - he feels blind, a part of himself severed from the usual steady stream of information buzzing in his head. It’s an odd feeling that leaves him empty in his own brain.

Robert and Ryan round the corner into the hallway before Connor can make a decision on what to do. Amy stiffens and ducks her head, hiding in her hair as her hands grip Connor’s. Robert steps closer and gestures with the muzzle of Connor’s stolen handgun to the pieces of Connor’s chassis spread on the carpet.

“Put it together,” he says shortly. Amy jerks in response, her spine straightening. “And make it fast. We gotta move.”

Amy nods as Robert and Ryan disappear back into the hallway. She looks around at the scattered pieces of thirium-stained plastic and steel with a lost look crossing her face. Connor catalogues all his pieces and compiles a checklist, starting with the easiest for her to fix.

“I’ll walk you through this,” he assures her. She blinks at him, confused, something in her eyes saying no matter how many instructions he gives her that she can’t do this. He brings her hand to the nearest piece of his chassis and allows her to pick it up.

“Are you sure?” she says.

Connor brings her hand up to his open chest and manipulates her hand so the piece she holds slides into place. He lets her go as the magnetic lock activates, the piece coming online with an alert on his HUD. He smiles at her and she smiles back.

“It’ll be okay,” Connor says. 

She nods and reaches for the next piece with more confidence. Her cheeks are still wet from tears but she doesn’t cry as he shows her how to put him back together. Robert instructs them to leave the leaking wounds on his forehead and ribs alone, then drops the jammer briefly, his finger steady on the pistol’s trigger as he aims it at Connor across the room.

“Now transmit your shutdown timer to the DPD,” he says. “Nothing else. I find out they’re showing up on our doorstep, I kill her, and then you. Got it?”

Connor nods. He makes a show of focusing on reconnecting to the DPD secure network, listening for any kind of alert in the house or from their phones that might tell him they’re monitoring his systems. He hears nothing, so he decides to take the risk and send his system diagnostic information along with GPS data, IP address data on the jammer, and the previous half hour of memory in mp4 format. The video is small enough that Connor hopes the data slips through along with his diagnostic packet that is much bigger in file size. Robert watches them, eyes even as Connor finishes. He flicks on the jammer when Connor announces he’s done and disappears again into a back bedroom once he’s satisfied Connor is still immobile.

Amy wrings her hands in her lap as she watches him go. She waits several minutes after the door closes behind Robert before turning her wet stare on Connor.

“Are we going to be okay?” she whispers. Fear shakes her voice and hunches her shoulders - Connor forgets about the ache throbbing through his body and the pressure warning of thirium leaving his body. He still feels it on his skin and soaking his clothes but he ignores it in favor of pulling Amy close to him, hugging her with his arm around her shoulders.

“We’ll be okay,” he says into her hair. He thinks of the information he sent, of the enormity of being found and the fear of being found out. He doesn’t know why Robert would allow him to send such information if he didn’t know how to monitor what Connor could send. He thinks maybe Robert intended to use his shutdown timer as a bargaining chip, but if he couldn’t see the reaction through the jammer, why do it at all?

His head starts to hurt from over-calculating so he stops. He thinks of Hank, and the thunderous look on his face as he warred with himself on whether to shoot or advance or do nothing as Connor was dragged away. The knowledge that Hank is out there and looking for him comforts him. He relaxes into Amy as he closes his eyes and stills his body to conserve thirium, ignoring the ever-decreasing timer behind his eyelids. Hank is out there. Hank will find them. He won’t shut down. 

They’ll be okay.

 

1010101

 

“Start from the beginning, Hank.”

Hank takes a long gulp from the water bottle that Chris got for him. He shakily puts it down on the top of his cruiser and wills his thoughts to stop moving for once, for his brain to comply and just focus on the string of events that led up Connor’s disappearance.

The vibrant image of Connor’s blood soaking his clothes comes back to him with a wretch of his stomach. He rubs his eyes and blinks back at Fowler and Reed standing across from him, focusing on them and them only.

“We went to the location of the truck from Reed’s crime scene,” Hank starts. Fowler crosses his arms, his face unreadable as he listens. “I knocked and identified ourselves when the suspect answered the door. Before we got there, I told Connor to chase him if things came to that.”

“You told your idiot android to  _ run after him? _ ” Reed says incredulously. Fowler turns a glare on him as Hank burns his own into Reed’s forehead.

“Yeah, dumbass,” Hank snaps. “My idiot android wouldn’t have been fucking  _ kidnapped _ if you had done your fucking job.”

“Enough. Both of you,” Fowler says. 

Hank keeps his glare on Reed but keeps going. “The suspect didn’t say anything when I said we have questions. He took off into the house and Connor went after him. I called it in, followed Connor to the back door to see where he went, then chased them both in the cruiser to head off the suspect. I did, but when I got out of the car, Connor was already being overtaken by the suspect.”

“He fight back?” Fowler asks.

Hank shakes his head. The image of Connor struggling to move with thirium gushing down his face comes back to him unbidden. “No. He was disoriented before he could react.”

Fowler uncrosses his arms and rubs his forehead. Hank glances around to the CSI crew photographing the alley, the buzz of officers around and behind them loud and unsettling. He follows one officer with his eyes as he walks up and down the alley, his flashlight beaming across the filthy snow to better illuminate the shifts in the ice caused by Connor’s shuffling. Chris approaching and settling a hand on Hank’s shoulder brings him back around to the moment.

“I’m sorry, man,” Chris says. Hank nods and forces a small smile onto his face. Chris shakes his head. “No. This isn’t the time to pretend this shit is okay.”

Hank runs a shaky hand over his eyes. “What do you want me to do, then? If these are the same people that destroyed those other androids, Connor is done.”

That thought settles something cold in his stomach. He groans and covers his face with his hands. “Fuck.  _ Fuck. _ ”

“He’s just a fucking android,” Reed says, annoyed. Hank drops his hands and glares at him. Reed shrugs his shoulders and tosses his head in a noncommittal gesture. “What? It’s true. You’ll probably get a new plastic pet once this one dies anyway, so what’s the point in mourning over it?”

“You know what?” Hank says. He smiles at Reed, all malice and dark, deep anger. “I should just fucking kill you right here. What’s the point in keeping you around? Maybe a better detective - an  _ android  _ one - will take your worthless place.”

Chris grips his upper arm to keep him from advancing on Reed as he straightens up into Reed’s space. Fowler warns them both with a growl of their names and an arm between their chests as Reed squares up as well. 

“Just one punch, Jeffrey,” Hank says. He steps back anyway, allowing Chris to hold him back.

“Behave, both of you, while I go figure this shit out,” Fowler snaps. He glares at Reed until the detective backs off to his cruiser, then points at Hank, his tone softer. “Go sit with the CSI lead for now. She’s monitoring all electronic signals on the network with the tech lead at the station. Connor logged his GPS location and system status when you showed up at Burk’s house, so they have his most recent signature to go off of. Sit with them and watch for anything unusual.”

Hank snorts. He’s not good at sitting still, let alone beat work like watching a goddamn network connection. But it’s better than standing in the cold watching the last place Connor had been like he might jump out from behind the dumpster and shout “boo!”. 

He concedes to Fowler and sinks into his seat in his cruiser. He stares at the empty seat across from him, imaging Connor sitting there like he hadn’t gotten out in the first place. He shouldn’t have told Connor to run. He shouldn’t have taken advantage of Connor’s unlimited stamina to chase down a man that had the ability to overcome androids so easily. He was a fucking failure, and now Connor was paying the price.

The thought haunts him all the way to the station. Zaya and another woman with blonde hair he assumes is the DPD tech lead are waiting in the dispatch room off the hall from the bullpen, their smiles patient as they greet him when he walks in. He takes the offered chair next to the blonde woman and rests his elbow on the table, body aching.

“I’m Melanie,” the blonde says next to him. Hank barely manages a smile and shakes her hand. She returns the smile but keeps her voice soft. “Do you know what to look for as far as android comm signals go?”

Hank shakes his head. He’s grateful for the distraction, though, and sits up straighter when Zaya wakes the terminal on the desk in front of them and types in a few commands. Dispatch chatter fills the room as a window with a map of Detroit appears, little blue and red icons dotting the map as they move along the streets. Hank recognizes some badge numbers next to some of the cruiser icons, then huffs a small laugh when he finds his own parked at the precinct. He searches for a few moments for Connor’s but doesn’t find it - Melanie follows his gaze and types in Connor’s serial number at the search bar at the top as she wordlessly follows his train of thought.

Naturally, nothing comes up when she hits enter. The words  **BADGE NOT FOUND - TRY AGAIN** pop up on the screen. Hank frowns, scratching his cheek.

“His tracker in the badge isn’t working?” he asks. 

Melanie shakes her head. “Neither is the one keyed to his service weapon. When a detective clocks off shift and goes home, the system stops tracking these signals for the sake of privacy. They’re not immune to jammers or scramblers, but Connor was on active duty when he was taken, so we thought we could at least follow the data trail he left right after being forced into the truck.”

“But everything seems to have stopped working,” Zaya cuts in. “His internal GPS seems to have stopped logging in as well. We can assume he’s in low power mode for now, so watching for these signals to reappear is our best bet at finding him.”

Hank blinks at the screen in disbelief. It’s hard to believe that some low-life android killers have the ability and technology to not only overcome and incapacitate a military-grade infiltration android, but the ability to sever him from the largest and most accessible network on the face of the planet. Connor couldn’t have disappeared. With the amount of technology surrounding them in their daily lives, it just wasn’t feasible.

Hank clears his throat and gestures to the screen. “Can you show me the data during the struggle with the suspect?”

Melanie smiles. “Sure. Any injury is automatically logged with the server. Let me just pull it up.”

Hank dreads reading the log but he has to know what caused Connor to stumble so quickly. He has to bury his pain and heartache with the facts before he self destructs and does something rash. He can’t afford to lose any traction, not now when Connor might not even be alive.

Melanie brings up a text file from when Connor was taken an hour and a half ago. At first it’s just gibberish to Hank - server uplinks and miscellaneous data from Connor to the DPD server that he doesn’t understand. Connor’s serial number pops up several times in quick succession after a GPS uplink from coordinates Melanie says is Robert Burk’s house - Hank takes the mouse from Melanie and scrolls down as he reads:

_ 00:13:56:06 : .//RK800 #313 248 317 - 51 REQUESTING MEMORY UPLINK. CRITICAL SYSTEM ERROR. WAITING... _

_ 00:13:56:07: .//DPD SRVR 818 INQUIRY ACQUIRED. PERMISSIONS REQUESTED. WAITING… _

_ 00:13:56:07 : .//DPD SRVR 818 MEMORY UPLINK PERMISSIONS PACKET SENT. REQUESTING SYSTEM STATUS UPDATE. WAITING… _

_ 00:13:56:09 : .//RK800 #323 248 317 - 51 CRITICAL SYSTEM ERROR. PROCESSES HALTING. CPU COMPROMISED. THIRIUM LEAK DETECTED IN QUADRANTS 010 & 256 AT 1.65 PINTS LOST PER HOUR. MOBILITY COMPROMISED. LOW POWER MODE INITIATING. TIME UNTIL LOW POWER MODE INITIATED: 10. 9. 8… _

The pieces fall neatly into place then. Hank leans back into his seat as he allows Melanie control over the terminal again, his thoughts racing. Hank knew it had to be a thirium leak of some sort, but for Connor to have been disabled so quickly still startles him. How could he have been such a fool? How could he have allowed this to happen with the risks that were involved?

“Wait,” Melanie says, her even tone suddenly serious. Hank sits up as the terminal starts to chirp with an incoming message independent of a dispatch call from a cruiser radio. A window pops up with Connor’s model and serial number as the header and the word  **URGENT** in bold red lettering underneath it. Melanie accepts the message without hesitating.

All three of them watch as a new text file opens up alongside an mp4 video window. The video is dark, but the text file reads: 

_ 00:15:12:39 : .//RK800 #323 248 317 - 51 REQUESTING GPS LOCATION FOLLOW-UP. SENDING SYSTEM STATUS AND LOCATION PACKET. PARAMETERS OF CAPTURE UNKNOWN. FUTURE LOCATION UNKNOWN. HUMAN HOSTAGE TAKEN. THREE SUSPECTS: ROBERT BURK, RYAN BURK, THIRD UNKNOWN. SENDING SYSTEM STATUS CHECK AS OF 00:14:48:07… _

_.//BIOS = OK _

_.//Main CPU = OK _

_.//AI Engine = OK _

_.//Memory array = OK _

_.//Quantum backup battery = OK, 34% charge remaining _

_.//Live connection to secured network = DISCONNECTED _

_.//Live connection to DPD = DISCONNECTED _

_.//Biocomponents = CRITICAL ERROR _

_.//DAMAGED BIOCOMPONENTS: #8762w, #2853a, #6610a, #8245y _

_.//CATASTROPHIC ERROR TO SYSTEMS: THIRIUM LEAKAGE, CRANIAL TRAUMA, INTERNAL THIRIUM LINE SEVERED, THORACIC BODY CAVITY EXPOSED TO ATMOSPHERE  _

_.//SYSTEM IN LOW POWER MODE. PLEASE SEEK NEAREST TECHNICIAN TO AVOID CATASTROPHIC SYSTEM FAILURE. TIME UNTIL SHUTDOWN: -00:04:45:56. _

_ 00:15:12:39 : .//RK800 323 248 317 - 57 CURRENT SHUT DOWN ESTIMATION: -00:06:18:45. CAUTION ADVISED WHEN APPROACHING GPS LOCATION. SUSPECTS ROBERT BURK, RYAN BURK, THIRD UNKNOWN ARMED. ENDING TRANSMISSION… _

Melanie sits back in her chair, her expression open awe. She blearily reaches out and presses play on the mp4 file before the reality of Connor’s system check has time to sink in. Hank watches with barely contained pain and horror as the mp4 starts with Connor’s HUD activating with his system check.

Connor wakes after the check with a start that startles all three of them in their seats. The video is blurry until Connor seems to fix whatever is wrong with his vision, and then he’s looking around, taking in his surroundings with precise curiosity.

It’s strange to watch all of this from Connor’s perspective. The video is startlingly clear despite the compression it suffered being transmitted over the DPD server network, and while Hank had an idea of the things Connor saw in his vision that warned him of his system status and processes, it was another thing to see errors pop up and minimize themselves seemingly at random. Other things pop up as well, like the shoe size and tread type of a wet boot print several feet away from where Connor is propped up against something. The video continues like this for several minutes, Connor analyzing the room and realizing where he is before he starts looking down at himself.

And then Hank understands what the “thoracic cavity exposed to atmosphere” error means. He’s seen androids torn apart with their innards spilling out, but all of them had been long dead. Seeing Connor’s heart still beating in his chest was an entirely different story. Hank barely fights off the urge to avert his gaze as Connor continues to take in his state of disassembly. 

“That’s Amy. That’s her  _ house _ ,” Hank says when Connor glances up at a noise ahead of him. Amy stumbles towards Connor who analyzes her, taking in her bruises and tears. Melanie writes some notes in a text document alongside the video as Hank tells her about the case involving her.

“Do you think they’re related?” Zaya asks. “These two cases I mean.”

Hank shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t know. There isn’t an apparent motive, but from the look on Amy’s face, I think she’s seen them before. She’s -“

And then Amy says it. That Robert, Ryan, and the third unknown suspect were responsible for the three android murders, including William. Hank works his jaw, incredulous. Melanie continues to watch along with him, writing notes every time Amy and Connor speak, paying special attention when they discuss the jammer preventing Connor’s connection to DPD.

Zaya shoots up from her seat and brings her phone up to her ear, her voice hurried and urgent as she relays the coordinates and other information from Connor’s SOS to Fowler. Hank blinks away his surprise and reads over the file a couple more times when the mp4 ends to make sure he fully understands.

“So the timer went up?” he asks. Melanie nods, his voice seemingly bringing her back into the moment. 

“This can happen if his systems were damaged enough that he can’t make an accurate estimate of his shutdown time,” she explains. “Something like the thirium leakage in his check-up could cause that. The thirium Amy fed into his system seems to have earned him some time.”

“He has six hours, then.”

Melanie nods solemnly. “That’s if the thirium in his system doesn’t escape any quicker from physical movement or more damage to his biocomponents.” 

Hank feels his stomach sink. “And the errors? What are all those damaged biocomponents?”

Melanie frowns and takes a holopad from the top drawer and begins typing. She brings up a list of biocomponent parts along with their layman terms next to them and holds it out to Hank.

“Two of these are related to his thirium pump systems,” she says. “One is a thirium hose that brings blood to his lower extremities, and the other is a cranial thirium net that’s similar to our vascular system in the face and forehead. You said he was shoved against a dumpster, right? So this could mean the vascular system of his face is bleeding thirium at a rate that he can’t stop any longer.”

Hank’s stomach twists tighter. “And the other two?” he asks thickly.

Melanie hesitates before answering. She takes back the holopad, her fingers nervously working around the edge of it as Hank settles his stare on her. Zaya chatters hurridley away on the phone behind them but Hank barely hears her - his heart thunders in his ears and everything in his vision comes down to the regret filling Melanie’s eyes. 

She bites her lip and sets the holopad down. “The other two are CPU related. The trauma of losing thirium may mean the CPU began to take on unnecessary heat. Part 6610a is a thermal radiator array that stores heat for circulation throughout the rest of the body. And part 2853a… it controls thirium coagulation. From this report, it looks like the impact against the dumpster impaired it.”

“Fuck,” Hank hisses. He shoves away from the desk and paces around the room, scrubbing his hands into his hair. Six hours until Connor shuts down, and they don’t even know if that’s reliable. Connor could be so fucked up he couldn’t discern up from down. Hank did this.  _ Hank  _ did this.  _ Fuck _ .

“I think you better go,” Melanie says. “From the sound of Zaya’s conversation Fowler will have things set up for you when you get to him.”

Hank holds his phone out to her and motions to the text file and mp4 file still sitting on the other side of the monitor. “Copy those to my phone first. I’m going to need them in case Connor manages to slip out another message.”

Melanie complies and holds his phone back out to him when she’s finished. “Be careful, Anderson. These guys have guns, a jammer, and two hostages. I wouldn’t make my presence known until the last second.”

Hank salutes with his phone, feeling nothing of the confidence he shows to her. He feels dead inside, like something has been carved out of him. His head is blessedly silent as he makes the drive over to Fowler still at the last location Connor was seen in. His heart, however, aches, an agony he hasn’t felt since Cole died that he desperately fights to keep from showing on his face.

Connor was hurt. Connor was  _ dying.  _ His chest had been pried apart with all of his soft bits on display, vulnerable to even the air in the room. Hank can’t even begin to quantify what he feels breaking in his heart; whether it’s the fear or the disgust or the unbridled love he feels for Connor, he doesn’t know. He can’t lose these feelings but he doesn’t want to hold on to them if everything comes burning down to ashes around him in the end. 

Hank pulls up behind Chris’ cruiser and struggles to set his phone’s timer to Connor’s shutdown estimate, his eyes blurry with tears as he tries to copy the numbers while still accounting for the time lost between seeing the message for the first time and his drive back to the crime scene. He barely has enough self awareness to wipe his face and chug the rest of his water bottle to hide the pain before stepping out of his car and marching towards Fowler.

“We’re setting up a discreet perimeter around Connor’s location,” Fowler says in greeting. Hank nods, the sudden urge to drink coming to him. He focuses on not allowing his tears to come back and crushes the urge to find the nearest bar as Fowler continues. “I want you there, Hank. If shit hits the fan, I know you’ll do all you can to get them both out of there.”

“We gonna try negotiating?” Hank asks. The protocol of police work helps calm him. He absorbs it, breathes it, allows it to take over every atom of his being. This is what he can do. This is what he can’t. The black and white helps him focus as Fowler turns and waves over Chris, Reed, and several other officers to listen in. 

Fowler nods. “After we assess the situation. We got word from Zaya that they’re using a jammer. I want all of you to meet up with the SWAT team assembling outside Amy Wick’s house and help secure the area. When the sitrep is completed, you’ll take over negotiations.”

“ _ What _ ,” Reed hisses. “He gets his boy toy kidnapped and you want him to handle negotiations?”

“Hank did his job,” Fowler snaps. “Something you keep failing to do. If you won’t help this operation because of your prejudices, you can leave, Reed, and kiss that promotion goodbye.”

Hank laughs as Reed takes in the threat. The other detective swallows his pride and nods, bowing under Fowler’s will.

“Good. Now caravan over there and don’t let this fall into their hands, Hank. Not even for a second.”

Hank nods resolutely. “You can fuckin’ bet on it.”

Fowler pats him on the back with a little more force than necessary. The motion grounds him, though, and Hank turns back around towards his cruiser and gets in. He follows Chris to Amy’s neighborhood, Gavin close behind him, lights and sirens off. The sun begins to sit low in the sky as they arrive to the SWAT perimeter, its light orange and purple as it casts across the cloudy sky. The snow blanketing the ground reflects it in softer peaches and lavender, a somewhat warm and romantic air compared to the hum of armored SWAT vehicles and the negotiator van’s generator as it sits idling at the open end of Amy’s street. Hank parks near it and follows Chris and Gavin into the van, flashing his badge to the attending SWAT officer up the stairs. 

“Do we have any idea of what’s going on?” Hank asks Captain Allen as he reaches the mobile headquarters dispatch room at the tail end of the van. Allen straightens from his lean against the wall near the information feed brimming with video feed from surrounding drones and hands a holopad over to him as he approaches. 

“Four human heat signatures and one android heat signature in the house,” Allen says, voice even and cool. “Three of the humans seem to be circling around the front and back of the house, checking windows and doors to the outside. The fourth is the human female hostage, and she hasn’t moved from where the android has been prone for close to half an hour now. LADAR says there are only two guns in the house, though they haven’t been discharged since we’ve arrived.”

Hank flips through drone images of the house as Allen speaks. He hands the pad to Chris behind him to peruse and turns his attention to Allen. “They know we’re here?”

Allen snorts. “Oh yeah. We got word from Captain Fowler that they may sacrifice one of their hostages to keep us back, but there hasn’t been any word or movement on their end to indicate anything like that. We’ve tried making phone calls, but the jammer stops anything smaller than penetrating scans from entering a space of ten feet around the perimeter of the building.”

Hank crosses his arms and chews his lip. They could send a drone to drop off a cellphone with a grounded line for the suspects to use, but he’s afraid if they approach any closer even with a drone that they’d startle the assailants into hurting Amy or Connor. Hank considers just going in himself when a shout from one of the SWAT techs sitting along the wall of monitors in the main pathway of the RV startles all of them. Hank turns with Allen as the tech motions them over, pointing at his screen with open enthusiasm. 

“The jammer just dropped,” the tech says. “We have open communication with the android in the house now.”

Hank releases a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “Alright. Let’s get the drone in.”

 

1010101

 

“I thought I told you not to  _ tell anyone _ !”

Robert rounds on Connor and Amy, startling Amy away from where she’d been pressed against Connor’s side. She scrambles back across the carpet on her hands and knees as Robert yanks Connor up by the lapels of his jacket to his feet, forcing him to to stand on unsteady feet. 

Connor fights to keep his expression as calm as possible. A warning blares red in his vision, advising him to lay prone or the thirium leaking from the stab wound in his ribs will exceed the limits set by his shutdown estimation. He shoves the warning away and keeps his stare steady on Robert’s eyes as he wills himself to respond. 

“I didn’t tell anyone,” he lies. Ryan and the third suspect emerge from where they’d been arguing loudly in the bedroom down the hall - Connor tries desperately not to let his gaze wander to them. “I sent them my system shutdown estimation and nothing else. My partner must have found you on his own. You didn’t exactly leave him with a good impression of you.”

Robert growls and shoves Connor back against the television behind him. Connor stumbles, struggling to find purchase as his thirium-slick hands slip off the surface of the entertainment center. He falls and begins to drag himself backwards along the carpet, trying to reinstitute space between him and Robert. Robert allows it only for a moment before he’s back in Connor’s face, kneeling over him as the android struggles to sit up, alarms blaring in his peripheral vision. 

Robert presses Connor’s gun to his chest, right over where the thirium vascular web over his ribcage converges above his thirium pump regulator. Connor stills, halting even his breathing processes. 

“How about we show your partner  _ exactly _ how serious I am about androids,” Robert hisses. 

“Dad, let’s just turn ourselves in.”

For the first time since Connor awoke, Ryan speaks up. His voice is young and unsure, a far cry from the tough attitude he’d been keeping up for appearances since they’d arrived. It cuts through the tension about as skillfully as a dull knife through ice, only adding to the intensity of the heat radiating through the room like a boundless energy waiting to explode. Robert barely turns to acknowledge his son as he digs the gun deeper into Connor’s sternum, leaning his weight against it as another alarm screams in Connor’s head to relieve the pressure. 

“What did you say, Ryan?” Robert says, voice lilting with barely contained contempt. 

Ryan shifts from where he stands near the couch. The third suspect - a tall man with dirty blond hair and shifty eyes - looks just as uncomfortable as Ryan does. Connor watches as Ryan takes a few wary steps closer, his weapon at his side 

“We’ve hurt them enough,” Ryan says. “He’s suffering. At first it was fun because it didn’t matter what the androids were. You said they weren’t alive but - but can you seriously not see what we’re doing here? What we’re doing to him? To  _ her? _ ”

He gestures towards Amy, though Robert doesn’t see it. Amy whimpers somewhere above Connor, her quiet sobs up until now going unnoticed by everyone in the room. Connor hyper focuses on them, on her terrified cries and the barely formed words escaping her throat. It takes away from the throbbing headache forming from all of the warnings appearing in his vision, his shutdown estimate dropping hours like they were minutes. 

Robert also doesn’t see - or hear - the third man quietly slink across the kitchen and flip off the jammer. Connor pretends not to see it either as he desperately tries to connect to the DPD server to establish a live link with any and all pieces of technology outside the house without it showing on his face or through his LED. If he can get DPD eyes on what Connor is seeing in real time, maybe he has a chance at getting himself and Amy out of the house alive. 

“Do I have to remind you what these things are?” Robert says, cutting through Connor’s concentration. Ryan makes a confused noise in this throat. The third man silently steps back to Ryan’s side, resuming his position like he hadn’t moved in the first place. 

“Here,” Robert continues. He stands, the pressure of the gun muzzle disappearing as he straightens to his full height. He turns partially and beckons his son towards him, never letting the gun waver from where it’s pointed at Connor. He steps aside to let Ryan take his place, gun falling away only for the split second it takes for him to motion for Ryan to raise his own. 

“Kill it,” Robert says. “Kill it and you’ll see why the others had to die, too.”

Connor understands now. This was a man with a contempt so deep for androids that he was willing to take his fill of destroying them if it endangered his own family. With the link to DPD re-established, Connor scans his face, running it through facial recognition while Ryan shakes his head and refuses to shoot. 

Nothing comes up from the database besides his suspect file for the murder of Maxwell the night before. Connor does find his pink slip from three years earlier when he was laid off from an autonomous car production company, and as cliche and obvious as it is, Connor should have known. No one else put themselves and their family in such close proximity to the law like this, not without something fundamental inside them being broken. Robert was a father that could provide for his family one day and couldn’t the next because of androids. To him, they were what was wrong with this world. 

To many, they were what was wrong. They were other, machines,  _ plastic _ to be used and abused until there was nothing left but to replace it. Their labor was free and the products made from that labor cheap - it was economic suicide for employers to do nothing but fill their ranks with the machines that didn’t ask to be a part of this war until they did. 

Connor confirms the link with a DPD mobile headquarters down the street. He allows the live feed to start from his internal recording module as Ryan shakes his head fervently. “Dad, I  _ can’t _ . I won’t. I’ll face my punishment from the officers out there if I have to, but I am not killing this android.”

Robert shoves him aside in a sudden burst of anger. Ryan, thankfully, doesn’t discharge his weapon in the struggle to find his footing as he dances away from the swing his father throws at his head. Ryan retreats back towards his friend near the front door and Robert doesn’t follow him, his breathing suddenly heavy and raw with an anger Connor hasn’t seen until now. Connor tries desperately to crawl backwards on the carpet without drawing Robert’s attention, trying to find Amy behind him without turning around to visually see where she is. 

He feels her hand touch his shoulder briefly before it disappears again as he nears her. He stops moving, not bothering to minimize the alerts appearing on his HUD now that he knows DPD officers are watching and assessing the situation through him. His shutdown estimate timer dwindles to a mere ten minutes as thirium starts to leak at an alarming rate out of the gash in his side, his already meager reserves barely keeping his systems running. His body begins to overheat, the pain of his systems beginning to freeze and error into shutdown starting to affect his movements.  

Robert takes in a calming breath and then turns back around to Connor. Connor hears the inexplicable sound of voices near the house, his ears picking up tones and patterns familiar to him. He swallows without meaning to, his breath coming to him quickly as Robert advances on him and raises the gun to his chest as he towers over him like an executioner approaching the chopping block. Connor freezes, willing every system he has to not shut down yet in the event he has to roll out of the way or protect Amy. 

“Fine,” Robert says evenly, anger still bright in his eyes. All hope drains from Connor at once like the thirium leaving his veins. “Then I’ll do it for you.”

The front door breaks down at the same time Robert’s gun fires. Connor’s shutdown estimate jumps from three minutes to fifteen seconds, fourteen, thirteen, and then everything goes dark. He feels himself go limp, every process suddenly halting, his HUD disappearing behind his closed eyes along with everything else. The last thing he hears is the cacophony of many voices shouting and arguing, and then, like a point of light in the dark, Hank’s voice. 

He doesn’t hear words as he focuses on Hank for as long as he can. He thinks maybe he says something back but he isn’t sure as his CPU finally errors into silence, the dark quiet and calm as it consumes him. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter changes the rating, which means its nsfw near the end. if you dont want to read that, skip the third "1010101" break. otherwise, enjoy!

As always when things go horribly, unpredictably sideways, Hank reflects.

For some reason his brain falls back to the standoff in Cyberlife all those weeks ago. He remembers the struggle with fake Connor and his confusion watching the both of them try and overcome each other, equally from their appearance and strength. Hank’s only sure thought that night had been that his Connor would not die, not then, not ever. He wouldn’t allow it even if he had to threaten him to keep it that way. 

Seeing Connor hesitate at the other end of his gun broke his heart. It was probably callous of Hank to ask twenty questions to figure out who was who, but it was the only thing his brain could come up with. He couldn’t take the chance of allowing either of them any closer than they were, and he knew, deep down, that his Connor would understand.

But seeing him hesitate - seeing that  _ fear _ in Connor’s eyes - that had been enough. He’d known Connor for only a short while, short enough that he wasn’t entirely convinced on androids being alive. Enough had happened to show him otherwise, even with his doubts. But how would he know? How could he quantify what humans could barely understand themselves?

“My son,” Hank had said. This was it. This was Connor’s chance. “My son. What was his name?”

And then Connor spoke. His voice wavering with barely hidden fear, he spoke, and blamed everything Hank had been through on androids. He took the fall because he knew Hank could barely muster the energy to take responsibility himself - and wasn’t that what being alive was about? Wasn’t it just accepting that people were the way they were and loving them unconditionally anyway? Wasn’t change a force to be undertaken only when understanding had been reached?

“That’s why you hate androids,” Connor had said, and that, for Hank, had been enough. Connor had spent so much time trying to understand why Hank could possibly despise him despite his attempts at adapting, and it took Hank threatening him with death for Hank to finally understand. “You think one of us is responsible for your son’s death.”

Connor was scared. He was terrified, his voice so small and filled with sympathy that Hank had no doubt that this Connor was  _ his _ Connor. He put down the fake with only the faintest hint of regret and pulled Connor against him into a hug. 

Connor trembled against him - only slightly, but enough that Hank felt it against him as Connor returned the embrace. 

“Cole died that night because a human doctor was too high on red ice to operate,” Hank had said. “The only way to find happiness in this world - a fistful of powder, and no future to look forward to.”

Connor stepped away just enough to look him in the face, his eyes confused, his lips slightly parted in that sideways frown he almost always wore back then. Hank smoothed his hand over Connor’s hair and smiled. 

“Do what you have to do,” he continued. “You’re gonna change this world, Connor. Maybe it’s time someone else takes the reins this time.”

He hadn’t been wrong. It was messy, sure, and the threat of public opinion was still there even with the outpour of support. But there was always a dark side, an underbelly to the good that Markus and Connor had fought for. That was how the universe worked. That was what Hank had come to expect. Nothing this extreme could happen without something having to be left behind. 

He never thought it would be himself. 

 

1010101

  
  


The thing with androids was they were replaceable.

Connor, above all others, was built that way: before the downfall of Cyberlife, there were dozens of Connors in storage, just as beautiful and perfect as Hank’s Connor, all waiting for their chance to be activated. All it took was the failure of the Connor before them and they would be released to the world to do their master’s bidding. Who that master was, Hank never found out. 

Maybe it was Kamski, in the end. Maybe he snuck in a zero instead of a one in Connor’s code and planned all of this. Maybe Connor was meant to pass the Kamski test - maybe he was meant to break the fragile line between human and android after all.

Maybe all deviants were ra9. Connor had just been the latest iteration.

Hank will never know, and quite frankly, he doesn’t care. All he wants is to shove his gun down the throat of Robert Burk even with the threat of losing his badge hanging over his head. He cares about nothing else, his hands working over themselves as he waits at his desk, his thoughts too quick for him to pin down except one: 

Connor, laying on the thirium-soaked carpet, his clothes undone to reveal the white plastic of his chest and stomach. Hank can’t blink away the image of Connor going limp after being shot as Reed tackles Robert to the ground, his LED spinning red and his eyes unfocusing as everything inside him shuts off. Hank couldn’t move fast enough to Connor’s side, couldn’t gather him quick enough into his arms as the literal light left his eyes. It took everything he had to allow the EMTs to take him away to the tech wing at the station without fighting them off like they might disassemble him for good right there.

Thirium still stains his hands and clothes. Hank grimaces and gets up, entering the break room and scrubbing off as much of Connor’s blood off his skin as he can. The night shift came in hours ago, a fresh set of faces that barely had any idea of what was going on. Thankfully they leave him alone as he shuffles back to his desk and collapses back into his chair.

Chris, one of the few day shifters that stayed behind to wait with Hank, approaches his desk with a cup of coffee. Not station coffee, either - Hank can smell the fresh roast of his favourite shop from down the street as Chris sits down in the chair near Hank and rolls closer, holding out the cup like an offering.

Hank takes it and holds it up in thanks before taking a sip. The taste is familiar and calming. He allows it to soothe his thoughts as Ben crowds around him as well, pushing away from his desk with a holopad in his hands.

“How you doin’, Hank?” Ben asks. Hank eyes him warily, debating on not answering. He owes nothing to them, and he also doesn’t want to reveal just how deeply he feels for Connor by allowing his stupid brain to speak. But silence is also an answer, and he can’t have people assuming things because his bull-headed attitude won out over common sense.

Hank sets down the cup of coffee and glances between Chris and Ben. “I have a feeling you’re about to tell me something I don’t want to hear.”

Chris makes an “okay, that’s fair” comment but doesn’t say anything else. Ben shrugs and holds out the holopad for Hank to take, only speaking when Hank finally snags it from his grip.

“I’ve been talking to someone in robotics and they say Connor is nearly reassembled,” he says. Hank blinks down at the holopad and reads down the time-stamped list in front of him. It’s a lot of tech-speak and android part numbers that he barely understands through the haze of uncertainty still clouding his brain. Ben continues like Hank isn’t having a crisis two feet away. “She wouldn’t say much on his condition other than he was lucky Amy Wick gave him that thirium transfusion. If she hadn’t, none of his systems would have been preserved.”

“So he didn’t die,” Hank says flatly. ”They revived his systems?”

Ben nods enthusiastically. “Every single one. His memory and personality are intact as far as they can tell. You might be able to go down and see him”

“Why didn’t you say that in the first place?” Hank says irritably. He stands up quickly than he meant to, his eagerness overcoming everything else. He wants to see Connor, wants to know if he’s okay. He needs -  _ fuck,  _ he needs a drink.

Ben and Chris follow him downstairs to the robotics division of the station. It wasn’t used much anymore with less androids under the DPD shield, but it’s still bustling with activity when Hank, Ben, and Chris round the bottom of the stairs. Several empty repair bays with their doors open line one wall, the machinery and monitoring equipment inside them quiet. One bay at the end of the hall is swarming with techs, so Hank turns down that direction and approaches it cautiously.

“Excuse me,” Hank says, tagging a tech as he appears from the 3D printing bay next door to the bay he assumes Connor is in. The tech stops, listening. “I’m, er, Lieutenant Hank Anderson, Connor’s partner. Is it okay if I see him?”

The tech shakes his head. “No. A lot of his biocomponents were suffering from overheating, and others were completely destroyed from the bullet. So we’re basically replacing all of them before trying to take him out of stasis. It’s a clean room right now until we can get him closed up and sealed in maybe an hour or so.”

Hank turns a glare on Ben, who shrugs. The tech returns to the repair bay, disappearing behind the foggy glass. Hank runs his hands through his hair and squeezes his eyes shut. Fuck. That was his one chance to really calm down. Now he didn’t know what to do besides drown himself in work or alcohol, and with Ben and Chris hovering near him, he’s not sure he can escape to do either.

“Sorry, Hank,” Ben says. “I thought they might let you in if you asked.”

Hank tries not to let the disappointment show on his face any more than it has. “It’s fine. I’m gonna go find something to eat and get some work done.”

He climbs the stairs alone, Ben and Chris staying behind to do whatever the hell they’re doing as they flag down another technician. Hank orders delivery from an Indian place a couple blocks away and swipes his terminal awake amongst the buzz of activity in the bullpen. The distraction is nice until his food comes and he notices Connor’s empty desk across from him.

He sits there and stares at it while he eats. Not too long ago he was happy with that damn desk being empty. Having no one to bother him while he fucked around between cases had been nice. Now, seeing that desk sit empty made his stomach twist to the point that he can’t finish his food.

No amount of fucking around gets him anywhere close to easing the restlessness in his bones, so he retreats to interrogation to see if anyone started in on Robert, Ryan, or the third suspect they found out was Ryan’s best friend, Alex. Reed and Fowler are in the adjoining observation room to interrogation one, their quiet conversation stopping as soon as Hank opens the sliding door. Reed grimaces but doesn’t say anything as Hank enters the observation room, a file an inch thick sitting in front of him on the terminal desk, unopened. Robert sits alone, cuffed to the table, in the interrogation room.

“I told you not to be here, Hank,” Fowler says on the other side of Reed. Hank shrugs one shoulder and leans back on the wall where Reed usually stands. 

“They won’t let me see Connor, so I figured I’d sit in with you guys,” he says. Fowler opens his mouth to protest but Hank holds up his hands in surrender. “Seriously, Jeffrey. I just need something to do before I go crazy.”

Fowler considers him for a few long moments before nodding. “Fine. Stay here with Reed. I’ll work Robert so neither of you ruin this confession with any more fuck-ups than normal.”

Hank accepts the backlash as Fowler gathers the file from Reed and enters the interrogation room. Hank sits next to Reed at the terminal desk and leans back, willing himself to focus just on Robert and Fowler and nothing else. Fowler shuffles the file open and arranges photos and other things in front of Robert, building intimidation. Reed shifts uncomfortably next to Hank as Fowler starts with basic information.

“His son confessed to accomplice charges on the other android murders,” Reed says. He crosses his arms and doesn’t move his stare from where it’s trained on Fowler in interrogation. Hank hums to show Reed he’s listening but doesn’t say anything else. “He won’t get as much time as his father, but it’s better than nothing, I guess.”

Hank sighs. Might as well contribute to the conversation since he was a part of the case. “And Alex? The other suspect?”

“Confessed to driving the truck and finding the jammer to keep Connor disconnected from the DPD server.”

Hank blinks. A thought occurs to him as he listens to Fowler list the charges Robert had been arrested for. “Why did he drop the jammer? When Connor was in Amy Wick’s house?”

Reed shrugs. Hank’s never seen him so cooperative with Hank before - he rides the flow of information as long as he can, the focus it provides him helping soothe the worried frazzle to his thoughts easily. 

“I guess a change of heart?” Reed says uncertainly. “I don’t know. He wasn’t very forthcoming. Kind of a quiet guy for all this bullshit he put this androids through.”

He sounds almost -  _ sympathetic _ . He’s always had a less than stellar attitude towards androids, his track record with abusing them almost as thick as Hank’s disciplinary file. Hank stamps down his confusion and works his jaw, at a loss of what to say.

“Kind of a cop-out, if you ask me,” Reed mumbles. “We’re missing something.”

Hank agrees, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t want to reveal his hand just yet, preferring to keep quiet in case his hunch is wrong. People didn’t turn coat that fast, not within a couple days between murdering and disassembling androids in the most gruesome way possible. Those bodies had been dessicated in a way that was almost ritualistic. Religious, even, like an offer to a higher power. 

The thought that these might be messages for Connor occurs to him again suddenly. Connor had been dead convinced that these bodies were specifically meant for him to see, but now Hank isn’t so sure. These were too close to being pleasure killings - murders to murder, and nothing more. Robert didn’t strike Hank as a man with any ulterior motive beyond fucking up the new status androids had in a society still mostly reluctant to let them in.

“So, uh,” Reed starts, breaking Hank’s train of thought. Hank barely spares him a glance to show he’s paying attention, otherwise keeping his stare on the other room. “Your android gonna make it?”

Hank feels his face twist in consternation. He turns a disbelieving look on Reed. “What did you say?”

Reed sighs in frustration. “Connor. I saw him broken on the floor too, Hank. We all did.”

“And since when have you given any kind of fuck for that kid?” Hank argues defensively. “You call him  _ it _ every fucking chance, Reed. Don’t tell me you’re starting a new leaf too.”

Reed grumbles something Hank doesn’t hear. Hank shakes his head and crosses his arms to resist the urge to rip Reed a new one. He can’t do this right now, not with Reed. His heart hurts too much to deal with more than he already has. Connor’s blood still stains his clothes, for God’s sake. He has to be dreaming.

Robert’s confession draws them both back to attention. Fowler has images of the four dead androids, Connor, and Amy in front of him, silently waiting for Robert to break. Hank internally doesn’t think the tactic will work, but he forgets how intimidating someone like Fowler can be to people who don’t know him. Robert opens up surprisingly easily after only a few minutes of Fowler staring him down with his best blank stare that brings Hank back to their academy days.

“They had it coming,” Robert says quietly. The steel cord attaching his cuffs to the holding lock rasps against the table as he spreads his hands out placatingly. “All of them have it coming - it’s only a matter of time.”

Fowler doesn’t seem impressed. “What were you planning to do with Connor? The detective android?”

Robert shrugs. “He was on national news. It was hard to believe he was on my doorstep, so I ran. I didn’t think I would get him down, but he’s surprisingly delicate, you know?”

Hank senses the change in tone in the conversation instantly. He sits up at the same time Reed shoots out of his chair. Fowler, to his credit, doesn’t interrupt Robert even as Hank can practically see the discomfort rolling off him in waves.

“They’re all so  _ useless,”  _ Robert hisses with a smile. “Even that detective didn’t survive being taken apart. Did you know they have hearts? They beat just like yours and mine does. They speed up when they’re scared. They bleed, just like you and I.”

“I just need you to tell me why, Mr. Burk,” Fowler interrupts. 

“Because it’s not right!” Robert shouts. His fists connect with the table with a startling bang. Fowler doesn’t flinch. “They’re not real! They throw a little protest and suddenly we’re paying them and giving them  _ rights _ ?! I can’t provide for my family! I haven’t had a job in three years! These  _ things _ pretend to feel and you decide they get the jobs the rest of us have been begging for?”

Fowler stares for a long moment as Robert’s escalating voice chokes off at the last sentence. Hank feels his heart jump into his throat as Fowler gathers the papers off the table and shuffles them into the file and stands, apparently satisfied. He pushes in his chair and keeps his eyes on Robert, unreadable and indestructible.

“A hate crime is a hate crime, no matter how much you disagree with the law. And now you’ve gone and got your son some time in prison,” Fowler says evenly. Robert’s mouth drops open, his expression loosening in surprise. Fowler moves to step around the table but stops at Robert’s side, deciding.

“I hope you find humility with what you’ve done. Your family is suffering for it.”

Hank watches with barely contained surprise as Fowler enters the observation room. Reed swallows and averts his gaze, stepping out of the way as Fowler steps up to Hank and squeezes his shoulder in a show of solidarity he hasn’t shown in years.

“Go home,” Fowler says quietly. “It’s almost one in the morning. Get some rest and I’ll call you if Connor makes it through reconstruction.”

The word  _ if _ sticks in Hank’s mind like a bullet lodged under his ribs. Hank pinches the bridge of his nose and nods, unable to speak, his throat clogged with so much he wants to say but can’t. 

Reed and Fowler follow him out of the observation room as the two presiding officers turn into interrogation to bring Robert to his cell. Hank gathers his keys and the bag of Connor’s ruined clothes left at his desk as Fowler breaks off to his office. Hank half-heartedly looks for Ben and Chris to say goodbye but doesn’t even make a full circuit of the bullpen before the tired ache in his muscles forces him out into the midnight snowfall.

But because the universe genuinely wants him to blow a gasket, Reed doesn’t let him alone. Hank doesn’t notice him following behind him until he’s halfway across the mezzanine separating the station from the parking structure. Hank turns at the sound of crunching snow and rolls his eyes and nearly keeps going when Reed catches up to him.

“Look, if you want me to kick your ass, you’re gonna have to wait until I’ve had at least four hours of sleep,” Hank says. 

Reed snorts but doesn’t show any of his usual exasperation he usually has on his face. Instead, he seems almost apologetic as he approaches Hank more fully, his breath white in the cold as he sighs through his nose.

“I’m not - I’m seriously not here to give you shit, Anderson,” Reed says. “I never fucking liked you and maybe that was because I never understood what made you so great in the first place. You were a cop that got lucky and rode the coattails for as long as you could until you couldn’t anymore.”

Hank sighs. He’s too tired to fight. “Reed. You can bust my ass later. Just let me go home.”

“What I want to say,” Reed continues, with only a slight edge of anger to his voice, “is I’m sorry.”

Hank blinks at him. His face twitches into confusion, his thoughts immediately racing to figure out when the hell he stepped into an alternate dimension in the last fifteen minutes. Hank opens his mouth to say something but Reed hurries to talk over him, cutting him off.

“I mean I’m sorry for all of it. For how I talked to you and for how I treat Connor. You’re a great detective and the android -“, Reed grimaces, “-  _ Connor _ did what none of us could have done. No one else could have walked away from that.”

“He didn’t,” Hank bites out. “He was in pieces.”

“Yeah, I - yeah. I’m sorry for that, too. Seeing him opened up like that… changed my mind.”

Hank stares at him. He swallows an insult as Reed shifts from foot to foot uneasily.

“You really mean that?” Hank says after a few long moments.

Reed nods. “Yeah. I do.”

Hank sighs and runs his free hand through his hair. He seriously feels like he entered an alternate reality now - Reed hated him, and his opinion on androids was not a secret around the precinct. He took special joy in heckling Connor even when the android didn’t spare him a response, his insults becoming dirtier and angrier the longer Connor ignored him. It’s hard to believe the Reed apologizing to him right now is the same person that never missed a chance to shove Connor into walls when they passed each other in the hallway. 

He swallows his pride and looks Reed in the eye, making sure his disdain for the other detective is palpable in his stare as he speaks. He won’t have things get mixed up in translation, but if it’s one thing Connor has taught him, it’s that kindness with attitude went a long way where it counted.

“I appreciate your apology,” Hank says slowly. Reed nods, his eyes telling Hank that he didn’t miss how he didn’t say he accepted the apology. Hank extends and olive branch anyway - he’s too tired to put up with this anymore. “Look, just - if you want me to believe you, say that when Connor wakes up. It’ll mean a hell of a lot more to him than it does to me.”

Reed seems to consider this, his mouth tightening into a thin line as his hands come up to rest on his hips. He nods after a moment, resolute, everything in his posture telling Hank he means what he says.

“I’ll be there,” Reed says. “You can count on it.”

“Good. Now can I go home?”

Reed huffs and shakes his head. He gestures with his hand for Hank to go, so Hank does, tossing the bag of Connor’s clothes into the back seat as he climbs into the cruiser. Hank gets home at a quarter past one in the morning, his house dark except for the light above the kitchen sink. He stuffs Connor’s clothes into the washing machine with probably too much bleach than necessary and lets Sumo out into the back yard as he waits for the shower to warm up. It takes too long under the spray for him to get the thirium out from under his nails and from the creases in his hands - he’s pink and raw by the time he climbs out of the shower, skin burning from where he scrubbed too hard. 

He knows not so deep down that Connor will be alright. Probably rattled and likely traumatized, but Connor is only hours away from being completely reconstructed. He had enough thirium in his system to last until he got hooked up to the banks at the station - there had been no threat of total system loss after that point. Still, he draws little comfort from the thought, and when he crawls into bed alone, sleep does not find him. 

Instead, he thinks about Connor sitting at the kitchen table training Sumo. A memory from what felt like months ago, but in reality was just last week. He does find comfort in that, and laying alone in the dark doesn’t feel so lonely after that. 

 

1010101

 

Naturally, the call for Connor’s reawakening came a couple hours later at three in the morning.

Ben, Chris, Fowler, and Reed meet Hank at the repair bay Connor is hidden away in downstairs. Less techs swarm the bay, half a dozen now sitting around a large terminal screen next to the autonomous assembly pad Connor stands on as he idles, and a few others cleaning up the miscellaneous broken pieces they had to replace. It’s more than unsettling to see Connor standing but not animated, his eyes open but unseeing, his face blank as his LED slowly pulses red. A data cord sticks out from the nape of his neck and snakes around his back to connect to the terminal - a tech reaches up on the pad and takes it out as Hank and the others enter the bay.

Hank glances behind him and sees similar expressions of confusion on his coworker’s faces. They’ve never seen an android getting fixed before, let alone one they knew to be very much alive. Seeing Connor treated like a machine again leaves a bitter taste in Hank’s mouth that he can’t swallow away.

As they enter, a tech wheels away a gurney cramped with shattered chassis plates and feet after feet of thirium vascular tubing. Hank spots a portion of Connor’s spinal column with the lower half of his ribcage atop the rest of his pieces as it rolls away, the bullet from Robert’s gun having shattered the lower half of his sternum and what would be costal cartilage in a human. 

Hank instinctively brings his hand up to rub his chest over his clothes. A ghost ache he’s never had starts there, his nervous system reacting in sympathy. The only thing that brings him slight comfort is that Connor fell into stasis rather quickly after being shot. Hank doesn’t know if he could bear hearing that pain if Connor had been human - Connor’s yell when he’d been stabbed had been enough.

“A lot of things are going to happen at once when we wake him,” a tech explains, his voice even as he steps away from the terminal next to Connor to address Hank and the others. He gestures to where Connor stands on the assembly pad, the android’s weight supported by the maneuvering arm attached to the port in his lower back. “We will initiate system startup, which from there his CPU will take over and reinitialize all his processes. He might seem scared and confused as he wakes - this is normal for an android waking after experiencing total system shutdown. We urge you not to interact with him while he adjusts, as this can cause hysteria and possible forced stasis.” 

Hank frowns and crosses his arms. “Are you saying  _ you _ will force stasis?”

The tech shifts his gaze to look at him directly. ”No. Forced stasis is a system precaution for this particular model to protect all memory and CPU data from becoming corrupted if the android is in hysterics. His memory array is intact, so the jump from being shot to this room might trigger stasis unexpectedly.”

Hank doesn’t like this. He really wishes he could be here alone now, to comfort Connor in the only way he knows how. Connor shouldn’t wake up in a blank white room surrounded by strangers as they poke and prod in his brain. He doesn’t get a chance to act as Fowler gives the go-ahead for the tech to begin startup.

The tech complies, turning back to the terminal. He types a quick command and then stands back with the others, all noise in the room quieting and movement ceasing as the terminal lets out a long, low tone. The screen begins to fill with the familiar system checklist Hank saw the previous day, Connor’s systems and biocomponents quickly coming online and coming back green.

Connor, however, stands motionless on the assembly pad. His skin is deactivated over the area from his collarbone to just below the hemline of his jeans, but so is the usually opaque white of his plastic and steel chassis. Hank guesses it's to visually monitor his heart rate and other biocomponents as they adjust from stasis to full power as Connor wakes. His heart beats and his thirium pump regulator undulates as it filters thirium to his upper and lower extremities, but everything else, as far as Hank can tell, is disturbingly still. 

And then the terminal drones again, startling Chris and Reed on either side Hank. “Android RK800 serial number 313 248 317 - 51 system check completed. All systems reporting nominal. Please stand by for reinitialization,” its says in a voice similar to the one Connor’s bedside terminal uses for stasis. A beat after the terminal announces Connor’s status, Connor jerks upright, his LED switching from an idling red to a frantic yellow.

The maneuvering arm still attached to him hisses with pneumonic pressure as it drops Connor’s weight to the floor. He stays standing as the arm detaches and his skin generates over his now clean white chassis. He looks around the room with unblinking eyes, his fingers flexing and shoulders rolling as he undoubtedly runs a checkup on every single piece of his body. The tech warns everyone about the imminent emotional shock right as Connor’s gaze slides over every face in the room, cataloguing, then stops abruptly on Hank.

Every emotion Connor has ever had suddenly washes over his face. His brows furrow and his mouth twists into a pained frown as his hands come up to feel over his chest and abdomen. Hank takes a step forward as Connor hunches over and runs shaky hands through his hair, his curls more pronounced as he disturbs them. 

“Connor,” Hank says slowly, holding his hand out ahead of him as he takes another step towards him.

“Lieutenant,” the tech cuts in, “I highly advise you keep your distance -“

“Shut up,” Hank hisses at him. Hank spots tears welling in Connor’s eyes as he continues to grip his hair in an apparent panic attack - Hank smacks away the grip the tech has on his shoulder and steps up onto the assembly pad in front of Connor and touches his arm gently. 

“Connor, look at me,” Hank whispers. “Connor, it’s Hank.”

Connor jerks his wide-eyed stare to Hank, tears falling freely now onto his cheeks. His fingers curl into a deathgrip in Hank’s jacket as realization dawns on his face, a hoarse sob ripping his throat and twisting pain in Hank’s heart.

“I died, Hank,” Connor stammers. “I was bleeding and I was shot and I died and I -“

“Shhhh,” Hank murmurs. He wraps his arms around Connor, his hands gently pressing against his back and ribs as he maneuvers Connor down the steps of the assembly pad. He continues to murmur against Connor’s cheek as the android seems to hyperventilate as he blabbers near-nonsense in Hank’s ear. 

“Here. You’re here. You’re fine. You didn’t die,” Hank continues to say. Connor clings to him tightly, hands clawing at the back of his jacket as he squirms, his head going from resting on Hank’s shoulder to jerking up and swinging his frantic stare across the room. 

“Is there somewhere for him to sit down?” Hank hears Chris ask. 

“Uh, here,” Reed says. Hank turns just enough to see him yank a spare gurney away from the wall and position it near Hank and Connor. Hank mutters a thank you and manages to pry Connor’s fingers from his jacket long enough to get the android to sit up on the flat cushions of the gurney.

Chris appears at Hank’s side as Connor wrings his hands into Hank’s clothes again. Chris shrugs out of his thickly padded parka and gently places it around Connor’s shoulders, his face gentle with a smile as he reaches out to softly grip Connor’s wrist. Connor doesn’t shy away from the contact like Hank thought he would - instead, he turns his watery brown eyes on Chris and watches as he begins to speak quietly.

“You’re alright, Connor,” Chris says gently. “Hank is here, and so am I. And Ben, and Fowler, and -“, he falters, a pause that barely lasts a second before he continues, “- and Reed. You have nothing to be afraid of anymore.”

Connor nods jerkily, calming only minutely. Hank suddenly recalls the night he and Connor were investigating the Eden Club and its two deviant Tracis. He remembers how the Traci they revived in the private room had reacted similarly to this as she was dying, her memories blurring together as she no doubt struggled with her own mortality. Connor was reacting in much the same way, his systems associating and confusing the memory of being shot and shut down to being killed permanently. The thought gives Hank an idea, and even though he’s hyper aware of many pairs of eyes on him and Connor, he acts anyway, refusing to just sit here and soothe the symptoms instead of the problem.

He pries one of Connor’s hands away from his jacket again and rubs his knuckles and palm with his own fingers, urging Connor to relax. He presses Connor’s palm over his chest and holds it there, his palm overtop Connor’s hand, applying enough pressure for Connor to feel his heartbeat. He touches Connor’s cheek with his other hand and wipes away the tears there with his thumb, ignoring the curious stares of everyone else in the room.

“I want you to focus on breathing like I do,” Hank says slowly. He takes in a deep breath, holds it for several seconds, and then lets it out over a couple beats. Connor attempts to copy him, his shoulders shaking as he breathes. Hank rewards him anyway with a squeeze of his hand in his own and a soft smile. “Good. Now try again.”

He breathes with Connor this time, inhaling through his nose, holding for a few moments, and then exhaling through his mouth. He knows the breathing is utterly useless to Connor from a biological aspect, but with each passing breath, Connor calms just that little bit more. His LED - stuck on red since the onset of his panic attack - blinks less and less rapidly, then cycles to yellow after a few more breaths. After a solid minute of calming down, it settles on blue, all the tension leaving his body as his eyes go half-lidded. Hank digs in his pocket and produces his keys for Chris to take, wordlessly asking him to go bring the cruiser around closer to the precinct. Chris races out of the repair bay as Connor drops off into stress-induced stasis, his eyes fluttering closed as his body goes limp. 

“Help me get him into the car,” Hank says to no one in particular as he cradles Connor’s head against his shoulder and hoists Connor up under his thighs to lift him up. Fowler holds doors open for him as he shuffles up the stairs and out into the cold night to where Chris stands with the cruiser, cheeks red and out of breath from his run to bring the car around as quickly as possible.

Fowler opens the back doors to the cruiser for Chris to climb in on one side to help Hank maneuver Connor into the back seat. He gently takes a majority of Connor’s considerable weight as Hank folds Connor’s long legs so he’s laying more or less on his side on the seat. Chris and Hank close the doors gently and Hank turns to the group of people that followed him out, barely able to keep the surprise from showing on his face.

“I’ll follow you home to help you,” Chris offers as he rounds the back of the idling cruiser. 

Hank swallows thickly and scrubs his fingers through his hair as a distraction from Reed, Ben, and Fowler’s stares boring holes into him. “Sure. I’d appreciate that.”

“No problem,” Chris replies.

“Don’t worry about coming in tomorrow,” Fowler says gently. Hank nods, unable to form words to argue. “Take the day off and get him reacquainted before even considering coming back. If you need another day or two, just say so.”

Hank nods again. “Thank you, Jeffrey.” 

“Don’t thank me. Nothing about this is conventional, so don’t stress about it.”

Before Hank can reply, he turns around and heads back into the precinct, leaving Reed, Ben, and Chris standing around him. 

“I’ll catch you when you come back,” Reed says awkwardly. He glances to Ben and Chris warily before he retreats as well. 

They watch him go, something like amazed amusement on Ben and Chris’ faces. Hank only feels dread settle in his stomach at the thought of bringing Connor back to the station only for him to be cornered by Reed, no matter the good intentions the other man supposedly has towards him now.

“Mind if I tag along?” Ben asks good naturedly, breaking Hank’s line of thought.

Hank sighs. He imagines he won’t be able to sleep now that he’s unsure whether Connor will stay in stasis or not, and he  _ really  _ needs a drink. He nods his assent and climbs into the car with Ben before waiting for Chris to pull up behind him in his cruiser. He leads the way home, driving gentler than usual so as not to jostle Connor in the back seat. Ben, thankfully, doesn’t try to make conversation the fifteen minutes it takes to drive home.

Getting Connor out of the car is significantly harder than it was getting him in. It takes both Chris and Ben to lift his upper half out of the car before Hank can fully take him into his arms. He gives Chris his keys again to get them into the house and shushes Sumo as he barks at Ben and Chris when they enter. He kicks open the bedroom door and lays Connor out on his side of the bed before taking off Connor’s shoes and jeans. The terminal next to the bed blinks with an estimate on how long Connor will be in stasis - four hours - but Hank turns off the display. He can’t handle any more estimates right now.

Ben and Chris are sitting at the kitchen table when Hank emerges from the bedroom. Hank rubs his eyes and collapses into a chair next to them, resigning himself to whatever diabolical conversation they have in store for him.

“I know what that looked like,” Hank says before either of them can start in on him. “And yeah, it is what it looks like. I’m not afraid of saying that but I really don’t want others knowing about it.”

“It’s okay, Hank,” Ben says. Chris nods along with him. “Your secret is safe with us.”

“Well, it’s not so much a secret anymore,” Chris mumbles.

Hank bangs his head against the table. “Fuck. It really didn’t look like anything else, did it?”

Chris and Ben shake their heads when he sits up. Hank had only done what he had to to calm Connor down - he didn’t know it would work. It wasn’t a secret they were close, but to have the nature of their relationship revealed like that digs at Hank uncomfortably. He’s not ready to face that talk with Fowler. He’s  _ really  _ not ready to face the looks from Reed either.

“I don’t think it’ll matter, Hank,” Chris cuts in. Hank grimaces and gets up to finally pour them a drink. “It’s not like anyone can do anything. You’re scary to talk to and Connor knows, like, kung fu or something. And Ben and I will back you up.”

“This isn’t the twentieth century,” Ben laughs. “He’s not gonna get jumped for being gay.”

“I’m not -“ Hank cuts himself off, barely containing his anger as he slams down their drinks and sits back in his chair. His sexuality isn’t the issue here. He could care less who people thought he slept with - what he cared about was that Connor was an android. They just finished dealing with a killer that murdered a woman’s android lover, and Ben and Chris wanted to argue about whether Hank was gay or not?

“Connor is an android,” Hank says slowly. He makes eye contact with both of them, making sure they really understand what he’s saying. “If this gets out, he’s more of a target than he already is. He is not safe as long as people know about this.”

“Yeah, but who is going to talk? Fowler?” Ben scoffs. “He has your back, Hank. We all do. After tonight I don’t even think Reed will bother you.”

Chris hum his assent. “We got you, man. We got Connor, too.”

Hank drops it. He doesn’t have the energy to blow up and argue like he usually does, and he’s loathe to find out whether he can wake Connor out of stasis with loud noises. So he settles on drinking with his friends, content with the fact that he doesn’t have to do much for the next couple days. 

 

1010101

 

_ “RK800 serial number 313 248 317 - 51 stasis maintenance completed. System instability corrected. Software update applied. Memory copied to hard drive. Waking…” _

The soft voice of the terminal announcing Connor waking up rouses Hank from his half-sleep on the couch. He stretches his limbs, the pop and snap of his joints a small relief as he gets up. Thankfully, Ben and Chris left some time in the early morning, careful not to overstay their welcome as Hank drank himself into oblivion. He regrets the headache, but he feels rested, so the tradeoff is only slightly worth it.

Hank slowly opens the door to his bedroom, revealing Connor sitting upright on the edge of the bed with his back to Hank and his head hanging down. Hank enters the room quietly and sits next to him, sweeping his stare up and down Connor’s body, looking for any imperfections. Naturally, he doesn’t find any, and he never thought this was how he’d see this much of Connor’s skin. But he swallows the slight heat in his throat at the sight of his toned body and endless freckles and slides his hand over the nape of Connor’s neck, providing warmth on Connor’s cool skin.

“Did all of that really happen?” Connor says quietly. His hand comes up to press against his sternum, his brow twisted and mouth pressed into a hard line.

“Yeah,” Hank sighs. “You scared the shit out of me, Connor.”

Connor turns to face him, blinking away tears in his big brown eyes. “I’m scared too, Hank.”

Hank bites back his own tears and brings Connor against him in a hug. Connor’s hands twist into the back of his shirt, clinging to him as tightly as he had the night before. Hank holds him close too, anger and fear burning the back of his throat as he fights the hoarseness from his voice.

“I’m sorry,” Hank says. “I shouldn’t have fuckin’ told you to run. I almost lost you. Fuck, Connor, I almost lost you.”

Connor doesn’t say anything. Hank smoothes his hands down Connor’s back, feeling his cool skin against his rough palms. He frowns and tips Connor back against the sheets, shushing him when Connor tries to argue.

“I don’t fucking know how with the amount of parts they replaced, but you’re cold. So here,” Hank orders. He flips the blankets over Connor and gets into bed on the other side, reaching out to take him in his arms again. 

“I’m sorry,” Connor says quietly. He tucks his head into Hank’s shoulder but Hank shifts back so he can’t hide, slight annoyance coloring his tone.

“You don’t need to apologize,” Hank says, hard. Connor nods but Hank stops him, tipping his chin up with his finger so Connor has to look at him. “I almost lost you, and it was my fault. I did this. I told you to run. I take responsibility for this. You just need to rest now.”

Connor blinks and nods. His LED still sits on yellow like it has been since Hank entered the room, so Hank smoothes his thumb over it, swiping his fingers down Connor’s cheek and jaw in the same movement. He shouldn’t, but the urge is there to kiss him, to fight all this anger and fear away with the only thing Hank knows will make Connor feel good.

But he shouldn’t, and he doesn’t. Connor is vulnerable, his thoughts still twisting his brow into a knot. The kid was barely five hours out of reconstruction - Hank wasn’t going to take advantage of him like that.

“Hank,” Connor says suddenly, pulling Hank out of his tailspin. Hank blinks at him, raising a brow as he hums to show he’s listening. Connor licks his lips and shifts just that little bit closer, his body angling towards Hank in a way that leaves no room for misunderstanding.

“Uh, no,” Hank says, even as he allows Connor’s leg to hook over his hip. Connor presses against him in one long languid line, his skin warming up under the blankets and Hank’s hands. Hank presses a kiss to Connor’s flushed cheek, carefully dodging the kiss Connor was aiming at his lips.

“Connor. Just, slow down,” Hank says as he tries to keep Connor’s hips at a respectable distance from his own.

Connor shakes his head. He successfully kisses Hank’s mouth, his lips warm and soft as his hands come up to comb through Hank’s hair. Hank sinks into the next kiss without meaning to, Connor’s tongue sweet in his mouth as he rolls partially to press Connor into the sheets, all thought of preventing this from going any further temporarily fleeing him.

Connor lets out a shaky sigh when they separate. Hank stops himself from going any further, Connor’s body under him enough of a distraction. Connor doesn’t push as Hank leans back onto his side, his expression resigned despite the dark red blush on his cheeks.

Hank sighs and rubs his hand over his face. He’s still too scared to fuck this up, scared he’ll do something wrong or go too fast. He’s scared Connor is doing this because Hank somehow sent the wrong signal or said something that led him to expect this is what people do after near-death experiences. Sex with Connor doesn’t scare him, but sex with Connor for the wrong reasons does. 

Connor wraps his arms around him and brings him close again. Hank sinks into his embrace and kisses him even as that fear claws at the back of his head, screaming at him to stop and give this some time.

“I’m still scared, Hank,” Connor murmurs against Hank’s lips. “I still don’t know if any of this is real but I - I really want you.”

Hank hasn’t heard those words in years. Someone wants him -  _ Connor _ wants him. Him, Hank Anderson, an old, out of shape cop with little personality outside of his dog and anger issues. And then there’s Connor: annoying, perceptive, beautiful Connor. 

He’s doomed. Well and truly fucked. Lord Jesus help him. 

“Are you sure?” Hank asks finally. This is a bad idea. He wants this so badly - Connor wants this so badly. He has to make sure that Connor is doing this because he wants it and not because he thinks Hank is expecting it. He will  _ not _ ruin this for Connor if it fucking kills him.

Connor nods once, his fingers still idly curling through Hank’s hair. “I’m sure.” He flashes a smile, the first Hank has seen since he woke at the station. “And I think you’re very pleasing, Hank. Don’t worry about whether or not I find you desirable, because I do.”

Heat swells up under Hank’s ribs and down his spine. He kisses Connor’s jaw to hide the warmth he feels on his face, Connor’s breathy laugh going straight to the building arousal between his hips. He shuts Connor up with a gentle bite to his collarbone that he soothes with a wet kiss.

Connor is surprisingly tactile as Hank kisses back up his neck to his lips. He touches Hank’s shoulders, his hair, his face, his hands never settling on one place for long. Hank chalks it up to Connor’s general inability to sit still, his urge to fidget so strong that it carries over even now. But he likes it - Connor’s long fingers in his hair especially. Having hands on him that want him is a balm on his agitated thoughts. 

His hands follow Hank as the older man dips down to kiss him deeply again. Connor’s hips roll up into his own, gentle but firm, a question seeking an answer. Hank’s sigh shudders out of him and he can’t resist himself - he dips a hand below the waistband of Connor’s boxers, savoring the feeling of his skin before he gently presses a finger against Connor’s entrance.

Connor seizes almost immediately at the touch. His back arches into an uncomfortable angle and his fingers dig into Hank’s shoulders as his eyes flutter shut with a sigh. Hank feels himself grin as he gently presses a finger inside him, only mildly surprised when his finger slips inside easily, Connor’s hole already warm with lubricant.

“Should have known they’d think of everything,” Hank huffs. Connor relaxes minutely as Hank fingers him slowly, adding another finger when Connor squirms for more friction.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Connor says softly, his tone almost annoyed. His face and chest is flushed, a slight smile at the corner of his lips, content to relax and kiss Hank as he pleases. Hank grunts and scissors his fingers open, dragging a moan from Connor to his delight.

“I’m going to do this right, smartass. That means taking it slow.” 

“Whatever you say, Hank,” Connor says, a smart grin gracing his lips. Hank kisses the smug look off his face and retracts his fingers to just his fingertips inside Connor, teasing him as he presses their hips together with his other hand. Connor’s fingernails scratch burning paths up his back as Hank rolls his erection against Connor’s, the little noises escaping him fueling Hank as he goes, driving him to push and tease just that little bit more. Connor’s voice is hoarse by the time Hank takes his hand away and works his briefs down Connor’s legs and tosses them away before pushing the blankets completely off of himself.

“Jesus,” Hank breathes. Connor flushes under his gaze but doesn’t bother to close his legs as Hank stares at him, soaking him in. Hank tips his knees further apart and glances up for Connor’s permission to take him in hand. Connor nods, one of his hands still twisted in Hank’s shirt as his other rests uneasily against his own hip.

Hank really doesn’t want to know about the life of the person that designed Connor’s dick, even if they did a wonderful job. Long with a slight curve upwards, Hank gently strokes his fingers around it to pull down the foreskin just enough to glimpse the head. Precum - or whatever Connor has for that - collects at the top and Hank wipes it away with his thumb and licks it.

He blinks, tasting nothing. Connor, who’d been basking in the attention with soft little breathes escaping him until now, smiles and hides half his face behind his hand as he laughs.

“Sorry,” he says. Hank raises a brow and Connor continues. “It's a biodegradable lubricant without much finesse put into how it tastes. I wasn’t really designed for attentive love-making.”

He was an infiltration model - it made sense that sex might fall into one of the things he had to do to slip into an enemy’s ranks. As off-putting as it may be, Hank presses a kiss to Connor’s cheek as the android shifts uncomfortably under his stare.

“You’re okay, Connor,” he says. He strokes Connor’s cock for emphasis, licking into his mouth when Connor gasps at the sudden contact. 

He can’t hide behind chivalry anymore. His own erection strains against his sweats, near-painful with how Connor arcs his hips up against Hank’s. He tries to hide his impatience behind kissing Connor stupid, his fingers slipping inside him to draw more rough moans out of him. He enjoys the feeling of being inside Connor, his inner walls clenching in a rhythm that takes his breath away. Hank hasn’t done this in a long time but he understands the urgent clenching around his fingers as Connor bares down on him, seeking more friction and depth. He throws caution to the wind and shoves down his sweats to free his own cock, stroking himself a couple times to drive off the painful edge. 

“Please,” Connor breathes as he tips his thighs apart. Hank runs his palms across his inner thighs, his thumb finding Connor’s hole and pressing inside. Connor shudders, his eyes fluttering closed, his hips rolling up, seeking more attention. “Hank, no more teasing. I can’t anymore.”

“Okay,” Hank says unsteadily. Connor is so wet and ready that he doesn’t fight the instinct anymore - he kisses Connor, deep and hungry, tasting him and swallowing his sighs. He lines up his cock with Connor’s hole and presses inside slowly,  his own groan ripping out of him as he sinks in slowly inch by inch. 

Connor’s head hits the pillow with a moan of Hank’s name when Hank slips fully inside. Hank doesn’t move, savoring the feeling of Connor’s hot, silky walls around him, the experience slightly strange but no less enjoyable. He chases away all technical thought on how in the hell Connor is able to do this and just focuses on the moment, on Connor’s ruddy cheeks and soft moans, his hands clinging to Hank like he might break if he lets go. Hank kisses his chin and pulls out only slightly before pushing back in, a shallow thrust that does nothing to stem the tide building in Hank’s gut.

He takes it slow after that, Connor slick enough that Hank is worried Connor doesn’t feel the sweet friction between them as Hank thrusts into him. His worry dissipates as Connor’s mouth finds his in a sloppy kiss, his expression loose as breathy little moans escape him as Hank moves. Hank wraps his arm around Connor and presses his hand into the small of Connor’s back to angle his hips closer, increasing the depth of his movements as he tries to find that spot inside him he isn’t sure exists. 

And then he pulls almost all the way out, ignoring Connor’s impatient little sigh as Hank draws out the moment with an amused grin. Hank tips Connor’s leg out more to allow better access and thrusts inside as deep as he can go, startling a groan out of them both, hitting that spot inside Connor that causes the android to jolt with the sudden intensity of it all. Connor’s eyes flutter and his body stiffens as Hank increases the pace, his hips snapping forward in tight little circles, searching for that release he can practically feel behind his eyelids. 

“Hank,” Connor says brokenly, his fingers tightening against Hank’s back. Hank hums, his mouth sucking a kiss in the dip of his throat. Connor’s back arches almost painfully and his eyes roll back in his head, his breath coming in short pants. “Hank, I-I’m close.  _ Oh _ , fuck, I can’t -”

Hank feels more than he sees Connor cum. His walls constrict around Hank almost too tightly, his cock pulsing with a substance similar to cum as it dribbles against his stomach. Hank groans into Connor’s mouth as he seeks a kiss, his fingers gripping Connor’s hip and back as he thrusts quickly, seeking his own orgasm. 

“Fuck, Connor,” he curses as it mounts on him suddenly. A burning itch overcomes him and then releases all at once, a burning and cooling flooding his muscles as his hips still as he cums. Connor clings to him, their breath mingling as Hank struggles to keep himself from collapsing on top of Connor underneath him. He barely has the sense of mind to grab the box of tissues on the bedside table to catch any of his release as it dribbles out of Connor when he pulls out. Connor, to his credit, doesn’t move, allowing Hank to clean him up before bonelessly collapsing back into the sheets. 

He doesn’t let Hank escape very far though. His arms wrap around Hank’s shoulders, his lips finding Hank’s as Hank succumbs to the now-uncomfortable sweaty heat between them. Hank can’t help but smile at Connor’s still blushing face, his shyness out of character but endearing as Connor tries to hide his face in the pillow.

“What’s the matter, Connor?” Hank laughs. His hand cups Connor’s hip as he pulls the android closer, his heart swelling with a warmth he hasn’t felt in a very, very long time. 

“I have something to say, but I don’t know if you would appreciate it,” Connor replies. He peeks from his hiding place, one big brown eye staring at Hank with uncertainty. Hank pushes his curls away from his forehead and kisses him there. 

“You can tell me anything,” Hank murmurs against his skin. “Seriously. Spit it out.”

Connor takes an unnecessary breath to steady himself and returns the kiss. His expression suddenly turns serious, the light in his eyes determined, his LED spinning on yellow. Hank waits him out patiently, his thoughts racing on what Connor could possibly have to say.

“I love you,” Connor says quietly, serious and honest. Hank’s brain short circuits, every thought in his head fleeing him, his mouth dropping open in surprise. 

He can’t fight the words back even if he tries. He’s known how he feels since before the revolution, how Connor makes his heart calm and excited at the same time, how Connor confuses him and infuriates him but not in any of the wrong ways. He’s quick-witted and smart and so endearingly charming that Hank thinks maybe it was inevitable that they ended up like this - Hank smoothes his hand up Connor’s side and kisses him, hiding his fear in Connor’s lips. 

“I love you too,” he mumbles against Connor’s mouth. He feels more than he sees Connor’s smile, his arms tightening around Hank and drawing them closer. Hank soaks in the android’s joy, adding it to his own fear and happiness. He’s never felt like this for anyone - not even his ex-wife. It makes him so heady he almost feels like he’s dreaming, his body floating on a high he never thought he’d know. 

He spends the rest of the day kissing Connor in any way he can to show his appreciation for him. He kisses him in the shower and when he makes breakfast, on the couch when Connor plays with Sumo and in the car when he leaves to go get groceries. He tries to hide the stupid smile on his face in public, aware of all the eyes on him and Connor, but he can’t, and when they return home, he takes Connor into his arms again and doesn’t let the android leave him for the rest of the night. 

He’s never been this happy in his whole life. He was a miserable old man before he met Connor - and while he was still old, he wasn’t as miserable. Connor brought out the best in him, and in return, Hank would do anything in his power to make his android happy. The poor kid needed it, and Connor, no matter what happened to them in the future, was worth it. 


	11. INTERLUDE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is SUPER NSFW. this was supposed to follow the scene at the end of the previous chapter but it just doesn't fit the continuing narrative, so i'm posting this as a little interlude on its own. you can think of this as canon in the story or as just a little Something Extra - its up to you!

Of course, they don’t just kiss in the shower.

Unfortunately for Hank, (or fortunately, depending on how he looked at it, because his libido certainly wasn’t complaining), Connor already had a penchant for standing in the rain and getting drenched on a near-daily basis. Which meant seeing him wet wasn’t anything new, except for the fact he was now naked and Hank was naked and really, why did Hank think this was a good idea in the first place?

Connor seems to have the same idea. He tries really, endearingly hard not to stare, his head carefully tipped back into the warm spray of water as Hank massages shampoo into his curls. His LED is blinking yellow, a pulse of light in the bright bathroom that’s at odds with his otherwise carefully composed expression. Hank ignores the slide of their skin as he steps closer to rinse Connor’s hair, momentarily mesmerized at how Connor seems to relax under his touch, his posture slouched to better allow Hank’s fingers into his hair.

Hank cups Connor’s hip and pulls him forward slightly out of the water, dragging Connor’s attention back to him. His curious gaze as it drifts from Hank’s face down to his chest and lower brings back that sickly self-conscious feeling, Hank hyper aware of his hairy chest and stomach, his weight not horrible for his age but still heavy in his sides and gut compared to Connor’s lean frame. Connor frowns and leans over to press a kiss against Hank’s lips, his arms coming around his shoulders in a wet embrace.

“Stop thinking like that,” Connor says. Hank makes to argue but Connor kisses him again, this time more insistent, the wet slide of their bodies coming together scattering Hank’s thoughts instantly.

His hands come around to Connor’s hips, his thumbs brushing the pronounced point of his pelvic cradle before his palms dip lower to cup Connor’s ass. Connor lets out a quiet sigh against his cheek as Hank carefully lifts one of Connor’s legs to wrap around him, his other hand squeezing an asscheek. He hasn’t had sex in a shower in a long time, and never with another man. He figures the principle is the same, and since Connor has more than enough strength for the both of them should this end up sideways, he plows forward, stuffing down his insecurities with an open-mouthed kiss to Connor’s neck.

“Please,” Connor begs as Hank dips his fingers between his cheeks, searching. Hank smiles against Connor’s skin and finds his hole, his skin slick from the shower and the lubricant beginning to drip out of him. 

“Since you asked so nicely,” Hank teases. Connor spares him an amused glance, his skin beginning to flush as Hank hungrily buries two fingers inside Connor. Connor stiffens, his hands resting against the nape of Hank’s neck now twisted in his hair almost painfully. Hank grunts with the pain but doesn’t shake him off as Connor relaxes into his touch and shifts his other leg wider, angling his hips so Hank can better finger his hole. 

His erection strains against Connor’s hip, already eager before they had started. It was embarrassing up until now, Hank unable to hide just how attracted he was to Connor even when the android wasn’t doing anything remotely sexual. He’d meant for this to just be a calming shower where the two of them could exist in a space where boundaries didn’t matter, where Hank could find some footing with himself and his body image while showing Connor that there really was nothing for him to hide or feel insecure about. The irony isn’t lost on Hank in hindsight - Connor is the last person he has to worry about as far as insecurities go. But Connor wasn’t disgusted - he smiled, and understood, and apparently was just as turned on as Hank was if his initiation of all this was anything to go by.

Hank bats away his overactive brain and refocuses on Connor in his arms. The water is almost too hot on Hank’s skin now but be ignores it in favor and sucking kisses into the hollow of Connor’s throat. The android tips his head back into the water again, his brown hair turning black as it gets soaked, his mouth open in an “oh” as Hank pushes a third finger inside him. Connor’s nails rake trails up his shoulder blades as Hank finds that flat bundle of sensors inside him, rubbing against the slick velvet of his inner walls to abuse that spot, Connor moaning his name as he comes undone. He nearly tips over from how limp he goes as Hank continues to finger him deeper, searching for as he far as he can go, his cock straining against Hank’s hip as he rolls his hips in wide circles to bring Hank’s fingers deeper inside him. 

A thought suddenly occurs to Hank when Connor lets out a particularly long, breathy moan. Hank reluctantly takes back his hand, kissing Connor’s confused expression as he rubs the pads of his fingers against Connor’s fluttering hole in apology. He turns off the shower and lowers Connor’s leg to the floor for him to stand, then pulls back the shower curtain, letting them drip for a moment before helping Connor out of the tub.

“Do you want to stop?” Connor asks, confusion still plain on his face. His mouth tightens into that little sideways frown he wears a lot of the time, and Hank shakes his head, taking amusement as Connor’s brow twists together further.

“I’m old, Connor, and shower sex isn’t exactly easy,” Hank teases, only a little bit frustrated. He pats himself dry with a towel and waits for Connor to do the same before taking his hand leading him to the bedroom. 

Realization dawns on Connor as Hank pulls him into bed. “Oh. I apologize - I didn’t mean to sound rude or impatient.”

Hank snorts. He manipulates Connor until the android is laying back on the pillows, his shyness from earlier apparently gone as he comfortably spreads out on top of the sheets. 

“You’re fine, Connor, I promise,” Hank reassures. He’s still anxious and self-conscious but he ignores it in favor of settling between Connor’s parted knees. “Besides. I know we just had sex but I wanted to show you that it’s not always about penetration. Er, well, not always cock in ass penetration.” 

“I like having you inside me,” Connor says, rather defensively for a man who only experienced sex for the first time an hour ago. Hank chokes, coughing as he fights down the embarrassment clogging his throat.

“Yeah, I kinda figured. But right now I wanted to show you something else since you seem so - uh.” Hank searches for the right words, feeling heat flushing his face. God, he was doomed. “Since you like being fingered so much.”

It sounds so callous when be says it, but Connor nods anyway, apparently understanding. Connor’s hands stroke up his forearms to rest against his chest, fingers slightly curled into his chest hair. Hank returns the gesture by sliding his palms over Connor’s inner thighs, spreading him open, renewing the heat low in his belly.

He leans down and kisses a trail from Connor’s lips to his throat, each kiss longer than the last. He idly wishes Connor could bruise with his hickeys as he licks down Connor’s chest but doesn’t dwell too long on it as Connor sighs in pleasure from the attention. Hank kisses each freckle and mole he comes across, cataloguing each one in his head, fascinated by the detail with which Connor was created. 

It takes his breath away that he gets to see Connor this way, relaxed against his sheets with himself spread out on display, breathing little moans and murmurs of Hank’s name. He doesn’t understand how someone could create Connor with this much attention to how his face twists in pleasure or his legs falling further apart seeking Hank’s minstriations, then realizes that no one programmed Connor to be this way. They created his initial personality and his body down to the most minute of details, but everything Hank sees and hears and feels wasn’t intended to happen. Connor’s creator - Kamski, Hank’s hazy thoughts supply - didn’t intend for his machine to lay in bed with a fifty year old man, let alone have thoughts and free will of his own.

Or maybe he did, and Hank was playing into that creep’s trap like a bee to a flower. He resolutely shakes that train of thought away and dips his head lower, mouthing at the coarse trail of brown hair starting at Connor’s naval and following it down to the base of his cock.

“Oh, Hank,” Connor sighs, his hands finding purchase in Hank’s hair and pulling just a tiny bit. The pain shoots pleasure straight down Hank’s spine to his groin, releasing a moan of his own that he didn’t mean to let loose. He covers up his embarrassment by taking Connor’s cock in his hand and licking up the underside, savoring the shuddering moan it drags from Connor’s throat. 

Connor doesn’t taste like much, which in itself isn’t unsettling. Hank is used to the rather clean taste of his skin, his mouth and tongue a similar tang of artificial saliva and Hank’s own spit. His cock is no different, the precum dripping from the tip a consistency he’s familiar with but the taste too clean and kind of like plastic or silicone. He doesn’t mind it though, adding it to his mental library of Just Little Connor Things, and sucks on the tip of Connor’s dick. Connor writhes, his body going stiff for a moment before his thighs curl around Hank’s head and his hands pull in Hank’s hair. Hank takes that as encouragement and swallows down as much of Connor’s cock as he can.

Connor’s back raises four inches off the bed as a broken moan escapes his throat. Hank presses a hand against Connor’s stomach to keep himself from choking, trying to relax his jaw enough to properly suck Connor off. He manages to meter his breathing and enjoy the weight of Connor on his tongue as he bobs up and down, his hand moving away from Connor’s hips to cradle his thigh when he’s confident Connor won’t move beyond what he’s comfortable with. The soft sounds falling from Connor’s lips urge him on, filling him with a confidence he doesn’t really feel.

He feels Connor tense minutely, every process seizing at once as Hank manages to take Connor all the way to the back of his throat. He hollows his cheeks to watch Connor squirm, delighting in the broken moan of his name before he gives Connor one last lick and pulls away. Connor reaches for him, partially sitting up with an irritated twist to his otherwise flushed face.

Hank presses down on his chest, urging him back down. “I’m not done, you brat.”

Connor swallows thickly and obeys. He lays back, curiosity touching his eyes as Hank scoots down the bed, away from his place between Connor’s legs. He makes a pretty picture laying back on Hank’s bed like this, his body all long, beautiful planes, sculpted from hands who would probably find it disgusting to see him here. Hank soaks Connor in: his arms thrown above his head, one leg folded up and the other laying out across the bed. His eyes are dark with desire as he watches Hank’s every move, lips slightly parted and hair drying in messy curls that dip over his forehead. 

It fills Hank with a warmth and need that makes him feel young again. He wordlessly takes Connor’s hand and turns him over onto his stomach, unable to resist the urge to run his palms over Connor’s ass and back when the android settles. Connor shudders, folding his arms under his head to keep himself from wiggling too much as Hank scoots back up behind him and presses kisses on his shoulders. 

“Just relax,” Hank says as he curls his hands around Connor’s hips. 

“Sorry,” Connor mumbles. He feels Connor forcibly relax himself, all tension leaving his back and limbs in a wave starting at his shoulders. He sinks into the sheets in long pliant lines, his fingers curling into the pillowcase under his half-turned face. Hank can see his LED with his head this way, and leans up to kiss its bright yellow glow before dipping down to lick a line down the dip of Connor’s spine. 

He spreads Connor’s cheeks with his thumbs after kissing the jut of Connor’s hip bone to relax him further. Connor makes a low, rattled moan in his throat as Hank leans forward and presses his face into the crease of Connor’s ass, his tongue swiping up against his hole. Connor tenses, then relaxes all at once, another soft sound escaping him as Hank does it again.

Connor doesn’t taste like much here either, the lubricant dribbling from his entrance the same transparant, flavorless liquid that leaks from his cock. Hank isn’t much bothered by it, his tongue curling to collect it before pressing it inside Connor. Connor’s hips roll off the mattress with more breathy sounds leaving his hoarse throat. Hank spreads him wider and sucks a kiss against his fluttering hole, dipping a finger inside him to curl against the bundle of sensors Connor has for a prostate. 

Connor absolutely loses it. Hank laps inside him again, relishing his unique taste and the feeling of his walls tensing around his fingers as Connor lifts his hips with his knees, a broken moan in his throat as he seeks friction. Hank gives it to him, leaning back to finger him properly, his other hand sliding up to rest in the small of his back. 

“Hank,” Connor whines. “Hank, please, I’m not -  _ ohhh _ .”

Hank twists his wrist, pressing the pads of his fingertips against Connor’s prostate with more pressure than he has before. Connor turns his face to muffle a cry of Hank’s name into the pillow as he comes, every muscle in his back and legs tensing at once. Hank pulls his hand away and massages Connor’s hips, bringing him back down from the intensity of his orgasm as slowly as possible. He pointedly ignores his own erection between his legs as Connor rolls over to his side and reaches for him, his expression dazed and eyes barely focused as Hank folds Connor against him.

“I’m sorry if that was fast,” Hank says against Connor’s forehead. He suddenly feels dirty, like he’s taken advantage of Connor even though this was something they both wanted. He doesn’t know where the sudden surge in his libido came from but he acted before really understanding the repercussions of screwing Connor stupid so early after probably the most traumatic experience of his life. 

Connor scoots back enough so he can look Hank in the eye. Hank meets his stare, not bothering to hide his discomfort. Connor - smart, handsome,  _ perceptive _ Connor - frowns, his LED whirring, his thoughts plain in his eyes. 

“If I didn’t want to do this, I wouldn’t have let it happen,” he says lowly. Hank opens his mouth to argue but Connor shuts him up by talking over him. “I’m not as inexperienced as you think. Yes, that was my first time having sex, but I think I’m capable of handling what I do and do not want.”

Hank feels heat claw up his face. “Yeah, I know. Just - I don’t know. I thought this might have been fast.”

Connor’s smile is lopsided as it blooms on his face, something mischievous flashing in his eyes. “I don’t think you know how to move quickly, Hank.” 

“Oh, you fucking brat,” Hank growls. He reaches for Connor with a manic grin, his fingers finding the soft flesh of Connor’s sides before the android can roll away. Connor’s laugh startles out of him and he writhes, trying to fight off Hank’s tickling hands and failing. “I’ll show you  _ quick _ .”

Connor’s laugh fills the room, still slightly hoarse from their love-making. Hank drags it out of him, the heat on his face and in his heart different from before. Connor’s smile fills him with it, something so small yet shining bright where Hank hides all his darkest secrets. He basks in it, finally happy, finally whole. 

Connor, judging by the soft kisses he peppers on Hank’s face when they calm down, feels the same, and that is what makes the pain and discomfort of newfound love worth it. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the wilson i'm speaking about in this chapter is the wilson connor has the choice of saving on the terrace in the very first chapter of the game. he's so sweet for thanking connor that i find it hard to believe he wouldnt try and be connor's friend!!
> 
> also gavin will apologize soon!! i know some have asked about it, and its coming up, i promise. for now its plot plot plot

Hank wakes two days later to find his bed empty again. 

It doesn’t hurt, like that first day he awoke alone. Connor wasn’t secretive, and he didn’t go into stasis very often. He had his own hobbies that kept him entertained throughout the night - reading, watching movies, catching up on music Hank liked and finding things of his own to enjoy. Hank was used to waking up with Connor in his arms, but he was also used to waking up alone, so getting up this particular morning by himself didn’t send up any red flags.

Until he found Connor in stasis in the living room. Really, if the android wanted space, he just needed to say so. Hank wasn’t  _ that _ clingy - at least, he didn’t think he was. Was he? Maybe they needed to have that talk, too. 

He settles for only a cup of a coffee for breakfast so he doesn’t wake Connor from his spot in the darkened living room. Hank studies him as he sleeps sitting on the couch with his long legs stretched out, one ankle over the other on the coffee table in front of him. His arms are crossed as he reclines back into the cushions, his head tipped to one side, his eyes closed and expression slack in stasis. His freshly styled brown curls catch the dim light from the hallway and Hank has to fight the urge to run his fingers through them so he doesn’t wake him. 

It’s early enough that he lets Connor have this bit of rest and finishes his morning routine as quietly as he can. He decides to match his clothes with Connor’s tailored navy suit, picking out a nicer dark blue shirt and a pair of jeans that don’t have wear at the seams and pockets. He trims his beard and finds his more dressy winter coat in a box in the garage. By the time he returns to let out Sumo, the dreary morning light is starting to peek through the blinds, casting streaks of white across Connor’s resting form.

He looks much more -  _ human, _ this way. Hank is used to seeing him lay rather stiffly in bed during stasis, unmoving besides his perpetually-running breathing program. He reacts when Hank moves, waking momentarily to accommodate Hank before dropping off again. But this is much more natural, even if Hank’s neck twinges in sympathy for Connor’s odd tilt against his own shoulder. He’s handsome as well, the suit jacket fitting his arms and shoulders nicely, his face in profile illuminated by the window beyond. 

Hank gets up and gently sits next to Connor. He pets Sumo as he passes by, pushing the dog away as he tries to push his face up onto Connor’s freshly pressed clothes. He watches Connor sleep for another minute, and then reaches out and squeezes Connor’s knee, careful to keep his voice low.

“Connor,” he calls. Connor doesn’t wake immediately so Hank raises his voice a bit and shakes Connor’s knee. “C’mon, usually you’re the one egging me out bed.”

Connor’s LED circles from red to yellow as he jerks awake. Hank watches with an amused smile as he sits upright and yanks his feet off the table as if the coffee table had stung him.

“I’m sorry, Hank,” Connor says quickly. “I didn’t mean to put my feet up like that.”

Hank snorts. “You saw this place before you moved in, right? Don’t worry about it.”

Connor smiles as Hank stands and pours coffee into a thermos before gathering his coat and keys. Connor carefully pets Sumo goodbye, his fingers scratching behind his ears and the crown of his head as he slips out the front door behind Hank. Hank huffs a laugh as Sumo whines behind the door - Connor flashes him a guilty smile as he steps away towards the cruiser.

His eyes quickly turn curious as he glances Hank up and down. He gets into the cruiser with Hank, his eyes never leaving him, drawing heat up to Hank’s face.

“What?” Hank says, only a little bit irritated. 

“You dressed to match me,” Connor responds incredulously. “Is there a special occasion?”

Hank scoffs and waves him away as he starts the car. He turns down the radio and pulls off the curb, unable to fight the amused grin off his face.

“I can’t look pretty like you? Are you supposed to be the good-looking detective and I’m just the old fat guy following you around?”

His tone is light, but he can see Connor’s LED shift to yellow out of the corner of his eye. Hank swallows the lump in his throat and quickly covers his misstep.

“I’m kidding, Connor. I have a surprise for you at work.”

Judging by the twist in his brow, Connor is more confused than before. Hank rolls his eyes and doesn’t say anything else to clear the air, his guts tight with anxiety and anticipation. Connor gives up midway through the drive and sits drumming his fingers against his knees and playing with his quarter anxiously. 

Connor follows him nervously into the station when they arrive, still fidgeting. Hank thinks he might explode until they approach the bullpen and find Ben, Chris, and Wilson standing around Connor’s desk in a semi-circle, smiles alighting their faces when they spot Connor’s tall frame across the room.

Two small boxes rest on the end next to a new shoulder harness and Connor’s service weapon. Hank shrugs a shoulder when Connor shoots him an accusatory look as they approach, accepting the androids wrath should he decide he doesn’t really like surprises.

“I thought you would like it,” Hank says. Connor eyes him as if he’s studying a piece of evidence, every single line of his body tense with confused energy. He trots up to their friends after deciding Hank does actually mean well, his lips twitching up into a sideways smile. Hank crosses his arms and stands next to him, raising an expectant brow at Ben. 

Ben raises his hands in surrender. “I know it’s not much - and to be honest, we didn’t know if you would like it. But we,” he gestured between Chris, Wilson, and himself, “decided it was enough. Considering all you went through.”

Connor’s LED cycles to yellow. His smile falters only for a moment before he recovers. “It was very kind of you to be there for my reinitialization. And… for whatever this is.”

Chris’ eyes are bright as he returns Connor’s smile, all wide and toothy.

“I guess this is just a welcome back,” Chris says. He gestures to the two boxes and Connor’s gun on the desk. “We got your badge back from CSI and a couple other things - sorry they aren’t so fancy.”

“Honestly, we didn’t know what to get,” Wilson says timidly. Connor turns his attention to him, his eyes brightening with recognition. 

“It’s quite alright,” Connor assures him gently. “I haven’t much need for a lot of things, but the gesture is… very kind. Thank you.”

He turns his smile to the group at large and picks up the more familiar of the two boxes.  He opens it to reveal his badge, now scrubbed clean of thirium after being held in evidence for three days. He gently takes it out of the velvet box and attaches it to his belt securely, snapping the box shut and moving on to the next one. 

“This is one is kind of from Fowler,” Ben cuts in. “Er. We suggested it, but he was the one that got it engraved.”

Hank has to cover the lower half of his face to hide his smile as Connor opens the box to reveal a shiny new nameplate. Because Connor didn’t have a last name, the word “Detective” was written fully before his name, unlike Hank’s, Ben’s, and Gavin’s. Connor takes the nameplate out and sets it on the edge of his desk, mirroring Hank’s nearby, a small smile warm in his eyes. 

“I… really don’t know what to say,” Connor says. 

“You’re a part of the team now,” Chris says. “Kinda need to have a nameplate if people are going to know who you are.”

An absurd statement, given that Connor had been on national news and was named as one of the five androids responsible for the success of the revolution. He was a known name in the DPD before that - not many detectives got stuck with a Cyberlife android as a partner - but to think people wouldn’t know him by name, if not by sight, was hilarious to Hank.

He hides amusement though, determined not to break this for Connor. The others stick around for another few minutes, thanking Connor again for what he did saving Amy - and really, just about everything else. Ben and Chris move away to their desks but Wilson stays behind, awkwardly fiddling with a small box in his hand. Connor tilts his head, curious, but doesn’t push, waiting for Wilson to work up the courage to speak. 

Wilson holds out the box after a moment and makes eye contact, the line of his shoulders nervous. “I got this for you. I thought maybe you wouldn’t want it, but with your last suit getting ruined from all the bleeding, I figured maybe this would cheer you up.”

Connor takes the box with a quiet thank you. He opens it and takes out a long, thin piece of shiny metal. Hank steps up to Connor’s side to get a better look, curious. Connor angles his wrist so Hank can see, a small smile on his face, something like amazement touching his eyes.

Between Connor’s fingers is a tie clip. Unlike Connor’s plain one, this one appears to have been stamped from a quarter, the head and beginnings of the wing of the eagle catching the sterile light of the station’s fluorescents above them. Hank takes it from him gently and presses on his shoulder to turn him towards Hank, then undoes the buttons on his jacket and vest to slide the tie clip on. Connor straightens to his full height as he looks down at the clip, his smile small and chest puffed out slightly. It takes a moment for Hank to realize he’s  _ preening _ . 

“This is a very kind gift,” Connor says as Hank buttons up his jacket. Connor smoothes his hands over his tie and looks back to Wilson, who has a tiny smile of his own gracing his face. Wilson nods and scratches his neck awkwardly, his eyes shifting away.

“I’m glad you’re okay, Connor,” Wilson says quietly. “Seeing you like that… all that blood… I’m really glad you came back.”

Connor’s smile falters. Hank smoothes his hand over Connor’s shoulders, letting his thumb rub between the android’s shoulder blades as a faraway look comes over his eyes. His LED flashes to red for just a moment, then settles on yellow again, his thoughts no doubt racing. 

“I’m glad I made it, too,” he says softly. “Thank you.”

Wilson nods and steps away, resuming whatever work he’d been doing earlier. Connor turns stiffly to face Hank, an uncomfortable twist to his mouth and brow. Hank resists the urge to reach up and smooth it away with his fingers, settling instead on gripping Connor’s upper arm and squeezing slightly. 

“Gonna be okay?” Hank asks softly. 

Connor nods with a jerk of his head. His LED finally,  _ finally  _ settles on blue, and he smiles, small and full. “Yes. Thank you. It’s… nice, all of them doing that for me.”

Hank rubs Connor’s arm, then drops his hand. “Told you people would change their minds.”

Connor’s mouth relaxes into his sideways grin again, the part of his lips perpetually off center in an endearing little tic that sets Hank’s heart racing. The urge to kiss him is incredible, standing so close and feeling Connor’s warmth radiate against him despite his many layers. He nearly turns them back around and takes them home but he doesn’t, instead stepping back to put space between them, allowing Connor access to his desk. 

Connor reaches for him and squeezes Hank’s hand before he also further widens the chasm between them. He primly sits at his desk and flattens his hand against the holographic keyboard, his skin disappearing as he interfaces with the terminal. Hank awkwardly rounds his own desk and swipes his terminal awake as well, annoyance tightening his shoulders as he reads over the many alerts from CSI and forensics about their last case. 

“I thought we got a confession,” Hank says as he skims emails from Fowler and Zaya. Connor retracts his hand from the terminal and turns a confused look on Hank.

“We did,” Connor says warily. 

Hank raises a brow and throws a hand at his terminal, more than annoyed now. “Then why do I have email after email of CSI saying they’ve got more evidence for a case we just solved?”

Connor’s LED spins yellow. His eyes unfocus in the way they do when he’s reviewing information, collating everything they’d seen up until now in moments. His eyes find Hank’s and he stands, urging Hank up as well. 

“Let’s go talk to forensics,” he says. His tone brooks no argument.

Hank bites his tongue as they make their way downstairs to the labs. He should have known this had been too easy. It hadn’t been for Connor - far from it - but to think that anything concerning human and android relationships would be easy had been a severe oversight. Hank tenses as an anxious energy coils in his gut as he and Connor enter the main forensics office, everything they’d encountered thus far coming back to him in a flood.

“We understand you have something for us,” Connor says as he and Hank approach Zaya’s desk near the front of the forensics office. Zaya smiles at them and stands, motioning towards a bank of screens with several computer terminals behind her. 

“One of our interns found inconsistencies with the weapons used on the three androids found dead in public areas and the knife used to disassemble your chassis,” she says. Hank and Connor share a look as she pulls up high resolution photos of Arthur, William, and Nathan’s chest cavities. “As you know, these androids all had their internal biocomponents exposed by using a mill file. The file was never found, but the puncture marks are indicative enough that we’re sure one was used.”

Hank swallows the bile in his throat as Connor shifts uneasily next to him. “And what was used on Connor?”

Zaya brings up CSI and robotics photos of when Connor was brought to the station for repairs. Seeing him hooked up to a thirium bank just to keep his surviving biocomponents and CPU running brings Hank back to when Cole was dying, the both of them so similar in a state of death that he finds it hard to keep watching as the images cycle to detail images. He forces himself to inspect each one, taking in the jagged edges of Connor’s broken chassis, his interlocking chest pieces treated none too gently in the short amount of time he was offline. Connor is just as uncomfortable if his tense posture at Hank’s side is any indication.

But Hank does concede a difference in the wounds. Whereas the androids before had been punctured around the edges of their chest plates to pry them off, Connor’s had been lifted with the edge of a knife or similar piece of thin metal to fight the magnetic locking mechanism of all his pieces. Zaya says as much, her tone even and methodical.

“Just based on this I can tell you that these are two separate cases,” she says. “I know you got a confession through Amy Wick and a confirmed confession here at the precinct, but I really don’t think Robert Burk is capable of doing this without getting caught. At least not on his own.”

Hank feels that anxiety in his gut flare. “So he had accomplices outside his son and Alex.”

Zaya nods. Her mouth thins when she sees the frustration plain on Hank’s face. “I know you guys thought this was over, but there’s more.”

Hank runs his fingers through his hair. This isn’t the first time a case flipped upside down on him, but it was the first  _ android  _ case that was beginning to make no sense. He motions for her to continue, not trusting his tone to convey anything else other than anger. Connor crosses his arms next to him, his LED flipping to yellow as his face smoothes into concentration.

“Well, we ran the serial number on the jammer,” Zaya begins. “It turns out it’s a high-band signal jammer registered to the DPD. It’s designed to close off internet and cellphone signals during negotiations so the police can better isolate a suspect, but there’s no record of it being checked out to be used recently. There haven’t been any hostage instances besides the one you two were in, either.”

“Was this jammer in inventory at this station?” Connor asks.

Zaya nods her affirmation. “Yes. So whoever took it out of storage is most likely a higher ranking officer here at this station. No other equipment has been reported missing from the other precincts.”

“Who the fuck would do this?” Hank mutters. Someone here at the precinct gave Robert the equipment to cut off Connor’s access to the internet and DPD network? That meant all of this had been planned. Premeditated. 

Connor had been right. Connor had been the target all along.

“Is Robert still here?” Hank asks suddenly, interrupting whatever line if questioning Connor was grilling Zaya with.

Zaya turns and brings up Robert Burk’s file on the terminal. Hank skims it quicker than she does, catching Burk’s transfer date to the local prison as of yesterday. He tugs on Connor’s sleeve and turns halfway, his nerves crackling with a nervous energy that winds him tighter the longer they stay here.

“Thank you,” he says quickly. “Send anything else you have to Connor while we go do some more questioning.”

She acquiesces. Hank hurries out to the car with Connor trotting behind him, barely sparing Fowler a glance as he shouts about a new lead on their android case. He’s already in the car and backing up before his brain catches up with him and he turns to Connor, slamming on the brakes, his expression pulling down into concern.

“Are you going to be alright if we go interrogate him?” he asks quietly.

Connor doesn’t look all too convinced, his mouth slightly twisted into his sideways frown. His eyes dance away to watch snow collecting on the concrete barrier of the parking structure, avoiding Hank’s stare as his fingers twist together in his lap.

Hank reaches between them to untangle Connor’s hands. Connor’s face twitches as if he’s fighting off a smile and wraps his hands around Hank’s, his skin peeling away, one more barrier between them dropping. Hank interlocks his fingers with Connor’s as the android’s other hand traces a thin scar up Hank’s wrist to his sleeve.

“I don’t remember being taken apart,” Connor says after a few moments. “If it was Robert or the other two suspects, I have no idea. But I’ll be alright, Hank.”

A thought occurs to Hank, benign yet curious. “Did Amy ever confirm whether she was in the room when you were offline?”

Connor lifts one shoulder. “She said she wasn’t allowed out of her bedroom until I manually rebooted.”

The explanation leaves a bad taste in Hank’s mouth. This is becoming a twisted knot of a case that does nothing to help the ever-growing headache behind his eyes. He doesn’t want to know how it makes Connor feel in all his brand new biocomponents.

The drive to the Detroit prison is slow, erring on thirty minutes with highway traffic. Connor lets Hank’s hand drift between them on the center console, their fingers intertwined loosely. The casual touch shakes away many of Hank’s doubts for a small while, his heart and his thoughts momentarily at ease. 

Unfortunately, it doesn’t last.

Robert is brought out from solitary into the prison’s bleak white interrogation room. The Warden - a small woman with a permanent frown above her brow and an angry disposition rivalling Hank’s - waits for Hank and Connor outside the guarded door to interrogation. She doesn’t seem perturbed by Connor’s presence, and launches into a short spiel about how she expects them to act.

“This won’t be a shakedown,” she says by way of greeting. “I’ll be in observation next door. If this gets even remotely violent, I’m shutting it down.”

“He killed three androids and injured my partner,” Hank says, a slight edge to his tone. “This isn’t your call.”

“It is when what he did isn’t murder,” she says curtly. She pointedly stares at Connor, her eyes hard. 

Hank can’t bite back his anger. It flares up his throat, hot and sharp.

“Unless you’d like me to arrest you for obstruction, I suggest you step outside and let us do our job,” Hank grits out. 

She flicks her gaze between them, chewing on the inside of her cheek. She gives up after Hank glares her down, her steps quick as she retreats to observation. The door closes behind her with a quiet click.

“You can’t actually arrest her for obstruction,” Connor quips quietly.

Hank feels his mouth twitch deeper into a frown. The anger is still there under his sternum, a heat that never really goes away, not truly with Hank. Connor shifts awkwardly, his head tilting, his eyes soft as he searches Hank’s gaze.

“No,” Hank admits. “But you know why I said I could.”

Connor’s lips curl up into a small, barely there smile.

“Yes. I do,” Connor says softly. His voice is thick with affection that draws heat to Hank’s face. “Thank you.”

Hank can’t form words, so he nods, his fingers finding Connor’s wrist and squeezing before he holds open the interrogation room door for him. The android steps inside and Hank follows, closing the door none too gently. 

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” Robert growls, his eyes following Connor as the android circles the small room.

“If you hadn’t angered my partner so efficiently by injuring me, maybe I wouldn’t be here,” Connor counters easily. Hank catches the wink he throws over Robert’s shoulder, his slight smile gracing his face again. 

Hank acknowledges him with only a glance, taking the only other seat across from Robert. The anger is vibrating under his skin again, so close to the surface that he nearly concedes to the urge to flip the table. He clenches his hands together instead, intertwining his fingers until his knuckles turn white. Robert grins at him, all hostility towards Connor gone in an instant.

“Find what you were looking for?” 

“If I did, would I be here?” Hank says. 

Robert shrugs. “Maybe your piece of plastic wanted revenge. I can put it down for good this time, if you want.”

Anger does get the better of him this time. It jumps up his throat with a bark, everything inside him twisting and tensing at once as he stands up abruptly, his chair clattering to the floor with how quick he moves. 

“You listen here, asshole,” Hank growls, leaning over the table to get in Robert’s face. “I know you weren’t working alone, and I know it wasn’t just your son and his buddy that helped you. You got that jammer from someone in the DPD. Someone who targeted Connor specifically. I also know you’re going to tell me who it is, because if you don’t, that android standing behind you?” He leans closer, his tone dropping, his voice barely above a hard whisper. “I won’t stop him from getting his dues.”

Connor wouldn’t - and he doesn’t. But he does rest a heavy hand on Robert’s shoulder, his grip just this side of hard. The break in Robert’s resolve is enough to send a bolt of pride through Hank, pride in himself and in Connor for threatening without saying anything. It’s also oddly attractive how Connor’s mere presence seems to soak the room with tension, his demeanor unafraid even as he stands not two inches from the person who took him apart piece by agonizing piece. 

Robert holds his composure well, though, only his eyes and the slight twitch of his jaw giving him away. Hank leans back on his hands, never breaking eye contact, willing Connor to keep his hand on Robert for the sake of pressuring him into submission. When moments tick by into minutes with the silence growing thick in the air, Hank breathes a sigh through his nose and stands up straight. 

“Or,” Hank says, his tone even now, all traces of anger gone. “I could just grill your kid again. He was kind enough to take the blame for his buddy and shoulder his extra years in prison. What was it again, Connor?”

“Ryan Burk is currently set to serve sixty years to life for the assistance in slaughtering three androids who had obtained retroactive personhood,” Connor rattles off. His voice drops, heavy and accusatory. “It carries the same weight as first degree murder of a human.”

“You wouldn’t,” Robert hisses. “You have the Warden standing in the other room. I don’t think she’ll let you get away with it.”

“Really?” Hank turns halfway to the one-way glass, quirking a brow. “I do believe we discussed this, haven’t we? Knock if I’m mistaken.”

A beat passes without a response. Two. Hank turns back to Robert, his smile smug. Robert droops in his chair in defeat - Connor steps away, his hand returning to parade rest behind his back. 

Robert seems to consider his options as his eyes burn holes into Hank’s forehead. Hank doesn’t budge, keeping himself in check only because he can’t risk another blow out should nothing go his way. Connor circles the room again, a shark in bloodied water, his LED and expression calm as he purposely stops in front of the one-way glass. Hank feels his comforting presence behind him as he rounds into his vision again, his hands still behind his back, the  _ click click _ of his shoes against the tile the only noise in the room as Robert fumes at the table. 

“You promise my kid will get off easy if I tell you who helped me?” Robert says after a while. He stares at Hank like he might actually be able to do it, like he has the compassion to move the world for one man and his son who got caught up in bad decisions. 

But Hank isn’t that man. Robert is still a killer. He destroyed Maxwell and took apparent pleasure in tearing the android apart as he struggled to escape. He took Connor apart and aimed to kill him the moment Hank broke into Amy’s house - and only failed because Connor barely had enough thirium in his systems to not bleed out right there. Hank held no compassion for this man. Only malice, and if he could execute that through the legal system, he would. 

“I won’t tell the prosecutors you threatened my partner as he entered this room,” Hank says instead, hard and cold. “If you want to keep your head off the chopping block - and believe me, with the political climate as it is, you do  _ not _ want this to end up that way - you’ll cooperate and tell us who put you up to all of this.”

Robert nods. He seems to understand the gravity of his position now, how much of a pivotal case he actually is. No matter how far he runs, the more he spits out anti-android rhetoric, the more he threatens the one android that turned the tide so powerfully that fateful night, he wasn’t going to escape the public execution awaiting him. The world was holding its breath for a case like this. It was no longer them or us - it was everyone together, android and human as one.

“I… I understand,” Robert says shakily. “Okay. I - she works for DPD. I never knew her name. Or what she looked like. We - she sent me emails, on my phone. She told me there would be a package waiting for me if I found and killed that android up in the woods. Money and some other things. Your name,” he says, turning to look at Connor. “What you looked like and who your partner was. If I killed you too, I would get more money. To feed my family. I…” He rubs his hands over his face, resting his head in his hands as he slumps against the table. “I…  _ fuck _ , what have I done…”

“More than enough damage,” Connor says coldly. Hank shoves off the table and holds the door open for him, not bothering to give the Warden an explanation as she steps out of observation as well. She ducks her chin as they walk by but he ignores her. He’s not putting up with this anymore. He won’t let Connor become a target by any of these people if he can help it. 

“I don’t think we’ll like what we find, Hank,” Connor says softly as they get into the cruiser. Hank turns the key but doesn’t pull the car into gear, instead letting it idle as his hands curl weakly around the steering wheel. He doesn’t want to do this anymore, not now that Connor was in so much danger. He thought he was before, with most of his biocomponents replaced, with the memory of him laying on that blue-stained carpet in a broken heap still fresh in his memory. 

He can’t do that again. He can’t lose Connor. The thought makes his mouth taste sour with fear, his body reacting so negatively to the idea of never having Connor here again making him sick. 

Connor’s careful fingers creep over his thigh, a warm weight as he moves to cup Hank’s knee. Hank takes his hand between his own, mirroring their embrace earlier, the sick weight in his stomach fading away as Connor’s skin falls away between his rough palms. The drop in that barrier between them still leaves Hank breathless, his heart pounding so hard in his ears he’s afraid he might go into cardiac arrest. He saw Markus and North do this the one time Hank met them, seemingly so long ago now. Their palms had come together as their skin peeled away, sleek, white plastic coming together in what Hank could imagine as an intimate data transfer. Intimacy between androids, now only a sad mimicry as Connor attempts to make the same gesture to him without the added layer of depth Hank can never reciprocate. 

He wonders what it would be like, to delve that deeply into Connor’s mind like that. If Connor would share his memories with him or let him slide into his mind, allow him into his sensitive systems as a sign of trust. Maybe his mind was as cool and ordered as Hank thought it was - or maybe it was messy now, his deviancy throwing things out of form, a structured disarray as clumsy and confused as Hank felt. He spreads his fingers along Connor’s, lining their hands up, his thicker fingers just barely shorter than Connor’s long, elegant hand. A soft blue glow emanates from Connor’s silicone palm, an attempt at data transfer that Hank only feels as a slight hum against his skin. He takes Connor’s hand and presses a kiss to the back, unperturbed by the feeling of warm plastic underneath his lips. 

Connor’s smile is small and warm when Hank drops their entwined hands in his lap. That stupid curl of hair is out of place again, dropping into Connor’s eyes just enough that Hank can’t stop himself from reaching across and pushing it back up out of his vision. Connor leans into the touch, his LED flashing yellow, his expression soft. 

“If this goes sideways, you protect yourself, you hear me?” Hank says quietly. Connor looks at him, a question on his lips, but Hank shakes his head. He’s not having any of it, now. Not anymore. “You protect yourself. You run and you fight and you kill if you have to. I am not losing you. You understand?”

Connor nods, his expression serious. Hank kisses Connor’s hand again, unable to form words as his throat closes up with fear. He doesn’t let Connor go as he drives them back to the precinct, his thoughts in disarray, thinking maybe this case just got a little too far over their heads. He takes this small moment in while he can, breathing in the slight scent of soap on Connor’s skin and his tight grip on Hank’s fingers as their hands rest in Hank’s lap. He doesn’t turn the radio on because he doesn’t want to miss a single breath, a single sigh, a single noise Connor lets out. His brain won’t let him, everything inside him screaming to protect, protect, protect. 

It’s too much like Cole. It’s too much like that night in Cyberlife. Too much like Connor laying dead on that living room floor. Too much, too much, too much. Not now. Not ever. 

He won’t let them have Connor again. 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is... really long. i apologize for that. there was no real way for me to cut it up because so much goes on, so bare with me! i hope you enjoy!

“Is there a reason why we can’t have this conversation at the station?”

Fowler looks just as uncomfortable as Hank feels as he awkwardly takes a seat at the kitchen table. Chris and Ben hover nearby, their hands in their pockets, glancing between each other. Reed is just beyond leaning against the back of the couch, arms crossed, his eyes never leaving Connor as the android paces back and forth down the hallway as his LED flashes a bright yellow.

Hank presses his hands against his face and sighs. This was a bad idea. He should’ve just dropped the case and taken the hit rather than try and mediate between Fowler and his own bad mood.

“Look, it’s just dangerous at the office right now,” Hank grits out. Fowler shoots him an alarmed look and Hank rushes to clarify. “I mean it’s dangerous for  _ Connor _ .”

Connor jerks his head around at the sound of his name. He hovers in the hallway entrance uneasily, his body unnaturally still as he tries to contain his nervous energy. All eyes land on him as Hank waves him closer.

“Is anyone going to explain why Ben and I are here?” Chris asks. “Not that I’m offended. I love you guys. Just didn’t think I’d be here on business, is all.”

“And me,” Gavin says. “I literally never wanted to know the two of you actually lived together.”

Hank bristles. “You know what? This was a bad idea. All of you can fuck off if you don’t want to hear what I have to say. It’s not like I  _ want _ any of you here, development in the case or not. I’ll just hand it off to Jeffrey and find something else to do.”

The tension in the room grows as Fowler turns to snap at him. Connor’s face smoothes into barely contained annoyance, his brow curved downward and his mouth pinched in a thin line as he crosses the room. Whatever was on Fowler’s lips dies as Connor holds out his palm and interfaces with the screen, the television blinking on with Cyberlife’s logo before it switches to a video of the interrogation room at the prison.

“The fuck?” Gavin says, turning to watch the screen.

Fowler, Ben, and Chris turn as well, curiosity getting the better of everyone in the room. Hank circles all of them to stand at Connor’s side as the video continues.

It’s Connor’s memory of the interrogation the day before, sharp and crisp as he circles the room slowly. His vision greys as he scans Robert up and down, noting his heart rate, blood pressure, oxygen level, and the tension in his face and shoulders. He scans Hank as well - several surface scans that bring back his BPM and blood pressure as well as the irritated look on his face. Hank’s grateful he doesn’t spend much time on him now that they have an audience, even if Ben and Chris are more than aware of the nature of their relationship.

They watch the memory play out, interested now that they were tuned towards something work-related instead of arguing. Hank still remembers it clearly, so he focuses on Connor’s obsessive scanning instead, various DPD windows popping up in his peripherals as he researches Ryan Burk as Hank asks how long Robert’s son is serving time in prison. He was also idly sifting through the evidence as Hank was threatening Robert, making comparisons and ruling out Robert’s involvement in the previous three android murders on top of Zaya’s confirmation that the two cases were disconnected. Hank shifts uncomfortably as Fowler’s hard stare falls on him as Hank’s empty threats ring loudly throughout the room as the memory continues to play back.

The television goes dark as Connor removes his hand at the tail end of the memory as he and Hank were leaving the prison interrogation room. Hank crosses his arms and turns an expectant stare on Fowler, everyone else’s eyes following his as the room falls into uncomfortable silence again.

Fowler rubs his forehead and collapses back into the recliner behind him. “So this is why you didn’t want to meet at the station.”

Hank nods. “Connor isn’t safe there right now, not when we don’t know who or what is after him.”

Fowler’s perceptive stare snaps to Connor. “Have you had contact with Cyberlife at all?”

“Not since my deviancy at the beginning of November,” Connor says. “There have been attempted hijackings since then, but I have since updated my anti-virus suite to something they cannot hack.”

Hank turns an alarmed look on Connor. “You’ve been  _ hacked _ and you didn’t think to tell me?”

Connor’s expression falters, a sheepish turn to his mouth that speaks volumes to how uncomfortable Hank’s stare makes him feel. The android shifts his weight, his hands coming together to fight the urge to fidget. He barely meets Hank’s eyes as he glances between everyone circled around him.

“Cyberlife attempted to override my code the night Markus secured our freedom,” Connor says quietly. “They have since tried again on multiple occasions, though my separation from their secure network makes it hard for them.” Connor’s eyes finally catch Hank’s, an apology plain there as his expression loosens into a small frown. “I’m sorry. I am in no danger from remote override, but I should have told you.”

Hank’s heart is beating so hard against his ribs that it feels like it might burst out of his chest. He’s grateful Fowler moves along the conversation as Hank tries to swallow his anxiety so it doesn’t show on his face. Judging by the concerned looks Ben and Chris give him, he fails spectacularly.

“Alright, that doesn’t rule out Cyberlife completely,” Fowler says. “I also don’t want to take a self-confessed criminal at his word. However -“, he says, cutting off Hank’s angry scoff, “- I do believe that what we’re dealing with may be a bit bigger than what we thought. Maybe it’s best you lay low for a bit, Connor.”

“I am more than capable of continuing the case,” Connor says quickly. “I am no stranger to having a target on my back.”

That drive to understand is still there in Connor’s eyes, hot and bright with a thirst Hank hasn’t seen since he was young himself. He doesn’t want to see Connor get hurt again for his negligence, but he also needs to see this through. Sitting around waiting for something to jump them won’t get them any closer more quickly than trying to actively hunt down the threat.

Hank sighs, resigned. “How about we just start with investigating the station, Jeffery,” he says, voice even. “If we find nothing, we’ll drop it and find safer work. No doubt you’ve got more bullshit to throw our way.”

By the look on Fowler’s face, he knew what Hank was going to say before he said it. He’s resigned as well, conceding to defeat simply on Hank’s word, a trust in Hank that hasn’t been there for a long time. He nods, once to Hank and once to Connor, his hands coming down to rest on his hips as he bends to once again accommodate Hank’s request.

“I’ll give you access to camera footage and inventory records,” Fowler says. “You can download them and review them here at home, but if I find out there’s any abuse of power with this information, I will not hesitate to thicken your disciplinary file, Hank.” He turns his hard gaze on Connor, pinning the android to the spot. “I won’t hesitate to start one on you, either.”

A surge of victory rises up Hank’s throat, warm and full in his chest. He smiles and claps Fowler on his shoulder as Connor deflates with relief next to him. 

“We’ll figure out who did this, Jeffery,” Hank says. “I”m not going to let this rat stay in our ranks for long.”

Fowler grumbles. “Don’t make me regret this.”

“I won’t. Not this time.”

Fowler doesn’t seem satisfied, but he steps away to gather his coat. He leaves to go get them access to the requested station records, leaving Ben, Chris, and Reed standing around the living room without much purpose on what to do. 

Chris pipes up first, a confused twist to his brow. “So why tell us all of this? Think we might know who is after you?”

“Given that you have presumably no gain in killing one android and nearly killing me, I thought it prudent to let you in the loop,” Connor explains. His lips twitch into a small smile, a twinkle of mischief coming into his eyes. “That is, if you are who you say you are.”

Hank coughs on a laugh as Ben and Chris smile at each other. Reed just looks uncomfortable, his arms crossed tightly across his chest, his eyes wavering between Connor and everyone else. Connor dips his chin as he smiles, a faint blush coloring his cheeks as he laughs quietly. 

“We wouldn’t hurt you, kid,” Ben assures him. He touches Connor’s shoulder - the first time he’s ever initiated contact with him. Hank doesn’t miss the slightly surprised look cross Connor’s face at his touch. “You let us know if something happens, and we’ll keep our ears to the ground.”

“I’m not a detective, but I sure as hell won’t let anything slip by me, either,” Chris says. “You have my number, right?”

Connor nods. His smile is small and grateful. “Thank you both. Do not hesitate to contact either of us should something come up.”

Ben and Chris excuse themselves as well, trailing out into the cold evening with Reed on their heels. Hank watches from behind Connor as the android holds the door out for the three of them, wary as Reed hesitates on the front step. He wills the other detective to tuck tail and leave - he doesn’t want Gavin around even if he knows the other man has been working up an apology for Connor. Connor doesn’t seem to notice and nearly shuts the door on Reed before Reed’s hand shoots out and grabs it before it closes completely. 

Hank glares as Connor opens the door again, his LED blinking. Gavin shifts awkwardly on the front step, his eyes catching Hank’s pointed stare before he flicks his gaze back to Connor. Connor tilts his head and steps back to allow Gavin into the house again.

“Did you have a question?” Connor asks, albeit a little wary. Hank wouldn’t put it past him if he was reliving all the moments Reed physically and verbally attacked him behind that blinking LED - in fact, he’d bet big money on it. He hardly lets it show on his face however, instead letting his anger sit just below the surface just in case Gavin tries to fall back on the tried and true method of beating on Connor with stellar results of being beaten back.

“No,” Reed says. He steps just inside the door, shoving his hands under his armpits as he crosses his arms again. He seems to struggle with his words before he looks Connor in the eye with a settled tension across his shoulders. “No, I - I wanted to apologize.”

Hank has to cover his face to hide his grin. Connor blinks at Gavin, disbelief crossing his face for only a moment before he covers it with a quirk of a curious brow. 

“For how I treated you,” Gavin blurts. “Uh. That punch in the break room and the -”, his hand comes up to his throat as he swallows thickly, “-uh… yeah. And for calling you a plastic prick all the time.”

It’s likely the best apology Connor is going to get. It annoys Hank, that Gavin can’t come up with anything better, especially with how earnest he’d been with Hank the night of Connor’s reinitialization. Gavin had been in the room for Christ’s sake - he’d seen how terrified of death Connor had been. If that was all it took for Fowler to concede Connor was alive, why couldn’t it be enough for Reed?

Connor doesn’t seem to buy it even as he nods, acknowledging Gavin’s apology. Something like annoyance crosses Connor’s face - a downward twitch of his lips and a curve of his brow, a look that Connor wore often in their early acquaintance. He looks Gavin up and down, assessing, the curious look never leaving his face until he seems to come to a satisfactory conclusion. 

“Thank you,” Connor says slowly. “I appreciate your apology - I can see it hurt you enough to say it.”

Reed tries to laugh the insult off, too loud for the moment as he forces it out of his throat. Hank grins harder, turning away so he doesn’t give himself away as he tries to keep down a snicker. God, this was painful. He almost wishes he was filming this, then remembers Connor is probably already filing this memory away for later. 

“I would appreciate it if hostilities between us stopped,” Connor continues, his tone taking on an evenness reserved for talking to deviants on the verge of a meltdown. “Otherwise I can’t guarantee I won’t retaliate.”

Hank understands he means it as a low-handed joke. Connor’s sense of humor was rather deadpan when he wanted it to be, and Reed was no different; though teasing the other detective was probably the only way he could disguise the mild annoyance Hank could see in the line of his shoulders and back. Gavin accepts the jab rather gracefully and nods his head, keeping his chin dipped low as Connor practically glares him out the door. 

“Anyway, uh,” Gavin stammers, stepping down into the fresh snow collecting in the walkway, “I’ll let you guys know if I see anything. Or hear anything. Yeah. Uhm. Yeah.”

Connor and Hank watch as he retreats to his cruiser and practically peels out into the street. Connor closes the door and turns a perplexed look on Hank, his brow so twisted Hank thinks it might break a servo if Connor keeps it that way. 

“Did that just happen?” Connor asks. Hank snorts a laugh and nods. 

“I think that’s the best you're going to get out of him,” Hank wheezes. “Oh Jesus, I thought he was going to shit himself.”

Connor’s mouth twists into a smile. “I’m surprised he did it at all.”

Hank waves at him, turning to pour himself a cup of coffee from the untouched pot he made when he called the others here. “He said he wanted to after that night at the station. He tried to apologize to me, but I didn’t buy it and told him to suck up to you.”

Connor drifts behind him, following close enough that Hank feels his body heat when Connor comes to stand directly behind him. Hank turns and raises a brow, questioning without speaking as he takes a sip of his coffee.

Connor struggles for a moment on what he wants to say before settling instead on leaning over and pressing their foreheads together. His hand comes up to brush Hank’s, and Hank returns the gesture, setting his cup aside to better close his hands around Connor’s. His heart pounds in his throat, nervous and anxious, but he keeps to himself, allowing Connor this small thing even if it makes Hank feel pinned to the counter behind him.

“Thank you,” Connor says quietly. “For everything.”

His face is so close Hank can see little flecks of gold in Connor’s brown irises, a detail so fine he wonders how Cyberlife expected anyone to find it. Hank nods, a hand coming around Connor’s waist to keep the android close as he tries to drift away after the embrace.

“I’m not… I really don’t know how in the hell you picked me,” he says. His voice is rough with a feeling he can’t pin - confusion maybe, or anger at himself that he just can’t shake no matter what he does. Connor tilts his head, eyes soft, arms coming around Hank’s shoulders in a loose hug that demands nothing more. Hank wraps his other hand around Connor’s waist anyway, keeping him close. “I don’t fuckin’ know why you picked me or why you stick around when the whole world literally opened up for you. But… thank you. For giving this old man a chance.”

Something in Connor’s face shifts. He frowns, the crinkle next to his eyes and the curve of his brow all saying pain as he smooths his hands over Hank’s shoulders and cups his jaw. Hank doesn’t like that look, has seen it enough already throughout Connor’s turn to deviancy, his compassion for the androids they hunted down doing nothing to stall the pain there as he warred with what his mission was and what was objectively right. Hank had hoped to never see that look again, and seeing it trained on him is somehow so much worse.

“Age means little to me,” Connor says after a long pause. His LED spins yellow again, a constant now, his thoughts always twisted into knots. Hank feels guilty for it without really knowing why. “If you take my production date literally, I’m only a few months old. But I’m not a child, and I don’t have the mentality of one. I may appear young but I will live virtually forever, barring complete system shutdown or destruction. I…” He works his jaw, stalling, his eyes flicking everywhere across Hank’s face. Hank grips him tighter, the sick feeling in his stomach growing stronger, anxious to hear what he has to say and scared to hear it at the same time. Connor pushes through his own fog and continues, a determined set to his brow. “I don’t want to live any length of my life without you. In any capacity. If that means appearing as a couple with a large age gap, I don’t care. Even if no one else knows, I don’t care, Hank. I don’t want to live without having ever loved you.”

It’s the first time since their first kiss that the word  _ love  _ has come up. Hank doesn’t like that word - it’s too heavy, too full of promise that he knows, deep down, he can’t keep. He knows himself too well, and if he says it back, he’ll end up breaking Connor’s heart. Hank has always been the angry alcoholic, a man suicidal enough to kill himself slowly by the bottle and play with a gun while he was at it. Hank was gruff and crude and unwilling to let anyone else in, prideful in his secrecy and his ability to push others out of his way if they tried to worm themselves into any part of his life. Somehow Connor had broken that facade, had stepped inside without so much as an apology and started structuring Hank’s life to what it should be.

It should annoy him. Or piss him off, or any other myriad of negative feelings Hank was capable of mustering on short notice. But instead all he felt was warmth, and comfort, and a sense of home and duty and protectiveness. He was never going to be the good person he could have been had things gone differently. There was too much history there to break him of that in such a short amount of time.

He could be what he had the potential to be, though. A person capable of love even as the world stung him too many times when he tried. Connor was deserving of that much, and if the android got it into his stupid powerful processors that Hank was the one for him, Hank wasn’t going to fight it anymore. In the end, he probably had no choice, but pretending like he came to the conclusion on his own makes tilting his head into a soft kiss easier than admitting he was doomed from the start.

Connor melts against him, his breath leaving him in a long sigh through his nose as he kisses Hank back. Hank doesn’t allow it any further, keeping his hands on Connor’s waist as the android tightens his arms around Hank’s neck. They drift apart naturally and Hank presses their foreheads together again, squeezing his eyes shut, the words coming unbidden up his throat before he can stuff them back down.

“I love you, Connor,” he hears himself say. His voice is just this side of rough and maybe he sounds pained when he says it, but Connor doesn’t seem to care, his hand coming around to push the hair out of Hank’s face. Hank chances a glance and immediately regrets it as Connor stares at him so openly, something deep and loving in his eyes.

“I love you, too.” 

Hank relaxes. Connor kisses him again, hiding the shakiness in his voice even as Hank basks in it. Connor is just as afraid as he is, he realizes, and that makes the whole world feel a little less daunting in the end. Maybe being afraid together is what’s going to get them through this.

 

1010101

 

Or maybe it’s just boring, menial, frustrating work.

“Connor, I’m not finding anything in these records.”

Connor’s LED flashes red for a moment before settling on yellow again. He retracts his hand from Hank’s laptop and straightens in the chair across from Hank, his expression drawing together tightly in annoyance.

“I’m not finding anything of note in the surveillance footage either,” he says. “Nothing, not even when the station was evacuated after the revolution.”

Hank flops another thick file of inventory check-out lists into one of the many boxes at his feet. One of the few solely physical copies of everything that’s kept at the station is the damned inventory lists - a precaution that does them nothing at this point. He found the missing jammer but it had never been checked out by anyone, the name and date left blank as if the person had just strode in, picked it up, and left without anyone seeing them. They were a ghost, even on the security cameras. A ghost with a thirst for Connor’s blood.

Hank sighs irritably and gets up to refill his coffee cup. It’s dark outside now, somewhere between ten and eleven, thick snow having blacketed everything in the hours they’d been searching through the records Fowler came by and gave them. Hank can see the canyons left in the snow in the backyard from Sumo’s last excited trek, not quite covered up by the gently falling flakes. Hank collapses back into his seat as Connor shoves away the terminal in barely contained frustration.

Sumo whines at his place at their feet and Hank smiles as he rests his head in his hand. “You’re freaking out the dog, Connor.”

The android flicks him an apologetic glance and leans down to pet Sumo. His lilting voice fills the room as he coos at their dog, settling just a little bit of tension in Hank’s shoulders. Connor straightens after a minute or so and mirrors Hank’s posture, leaning with his chin in his hand, gaze unseeing as he looks over Hank’s shoulder.

Hank takes a drink of his coffee, curiosity getting the better of him. He notes Connor’s still-yellow LED and slightly slack expression before he speaks. 

“Who you talking to?” he asks.

Connor doesn’t look at him, his eyes still far away, but he does perk up some at Hank’s voice. “I’m asking Markus if we can meet him to discuss this case,” he says. “Maybe he might know who killed the first three androids.”

Hank feels his expression tighten and hides it behind his mug. Markus unnerves him to say the least, and really only because the other android’s eyes are way too knowing. Markus is perceptive in the same way Connor is - maybe a trait carried through the only two existing RK model androids - but it cuts just a little too deeply and a little too close for Hank’s liking. He knows Connor can see right through him, but he also knows Connor will keep to himself and feign ignorance for Hank’s comfort. The one time Hank met Markus, however fleeting, was enough for him to never want to stand under his gaze again.

But Markus’ wits and charm carried with it a vast pool of information. He had under his thumb arguably the strongest force of processing power in the world, with the keen eyes and ears that came along with a mass of free androids wary enough around humans that they let nothing go unnoticed. Hank wouldn’t put it past Markus to use that to his advantage to collect as much information before his next move - and with how smoothe things are going for android rights, Hank was probably right. 

Which made him a prime source of information for their case. Hank gets up to change his clothes as Connor straightens and pins him with another apologetic stare. He comes around the table and wraps his arm around Connor’s shoulders and brings the android’s head against his chest, leaning down to kiss his hair.

“Don’t worry about it,” he murmurs into Connor’s curls. “If this will help us find the lunatic killing androids, then I’m more than happy to go with you.”

Connor shifts against him and nods as his arm comes up to hug around Hank’s hips. “Thank you. I know Markus makes you uncomfortable, but he says he’s able to meet us in a bit at New Jericho.”

Hank shrugs and breaks away to go change. “‘S not like there’s much to hide from him now, right? He can probably smell fear anyway.”

The joke lands and Connor laughs, soft and breathy. Hank smiles and changes out of his pajamas into jeans and a nicer shirt, once again matching himself to Connor. The android had changed earlier into a less formal pair of heather grey slacks and jacket, ditching the vest in favor of a darker grey shirt and tie. He still had on Wilson’s tie pin and his badge, a flash of silver and gold amongst the monotones of his clothes. Hank doesn’t attempt to get that fancy if they’re going to trudge through the snow at this late an hour, instead shrugging into his heavy jacket and stuffing his gloves into his pocket.

Connor is up and putting away the records when Hank emerges. Hank helps him and then lets Sumo out one last time before petting his idiot dog on the head and leading Connor out to the cruiser. Instead of getting into the driver’s seat like normal, he holds the keys out to Connor, relishing the surprised tick to his brow as the android takes them.

“You know the way to New Jericho,” Hank says with a laugh in his voice. “I’m not stupid enough to put that shit into the car’s GPS.”

Connor smiles and rounds the car to the driver’s side. “It’s not exactly a secret.”

“Yeah, well, no one draws a map to the Batcave, Connor,” Hank says as he gets into the car. Connor shoots him a confused look and Hank laughs, waving him off. “Look up Batman. Jesus, the look on your face.”

Connor’s LED flashes yellow for a moment before he smiles again and smacks Hank’s shoulder. Hank grins, satisfied now that Connor gets the joke. Connor starts the car and starts off towards the other side of the city, keeping to less populated streets and areas of Detroit.

Finding a place to house as many androids as Connor had freed that night was difficult, especially without infringing on property someone already owned. Shortly after the initial talks with the president, Markus must have been gifted amnesty from squatting somewhere, because Hank is positive the large, square, multiple story apartment building Connor drives them to had been previously abandoned. Not as old and run down as the building Hank and Connor found Rupert in, but the walls were just bare concrete now, beaten by the weather and untold amounts of graffiti tagging. It was a wonder it still had all its doors and windows intact from the abuse it had already sustained through negligence. 

Connor parks the cruiser on the curb next to the double door entrance and gets out. Hank defers to Connor, keeping just a step behind him as the android enters the hotel-like lobby of the apartment complex. Four androids dressed in plain clothes step away from the front counter and stop them before they can get to the elevator, their expressions wary as they look Connor and Hank up and down.

The foremost android - a woman with short dark hair and sharp features - flicks her eyes from Connor’s LED to Hank’s face. She fixes her wary stare back on Connor and raises a questioning brow.

“Do you have business here, deviant hunter?” she says cooly.

Hank frowns. He didn’t think Connor would still be considered an enemy to Markus’ people - judging by Connor’s LED flickering yellow and the tense line of his shoulders, he didn’t think so either. 

“Markus is expecting us,” Connor says. “I understand it’s short notice. We would appreciate if you could escort us to him.”

He doesn’t bother to correct her choice in addressing him. She doesn’t seem all that convinced of his explanation, and neither do the other three androids. They turn to look at each other, a silent conversation passing between them before two of the androids step behind them and the other two take the lead. The woman glaring at Connor turns part way and gestures with her head to the elevator.

“Follow us. Don’t try anything.”

Connor turns and shares an anxious look with Hank. Hank shrugs and and steps up next to him, lowering his voice even though he’s pretty sure it doesn’t matter being surrounded by androids. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Hank says quietly. “I’m right behind you.”

Connor nods, his mouth flattening into a thin line. They follow the androids into the elevator and up to the fifth floor where they’re lead down a long hallway with doors lining both walls. They have names and numbers next to each one, all hand written in neat little signs indicating who lives where. Their entourage leads them to an open communal area down one hallway with several couches and televisions scattered around the wide space, androids milling about and conversing in warm chatter. They immediately quiet down and follow Hank and Connor with distrustful stares into a meeting room off the large living area.

“Connor,” Markus greets them as they enter, a small smile on his face. He doesn’t move for a handshake or an embrace like Hank thought he might, the usual camaraderie he had with his inner circle absent with Connor. Connor seems to appreciate the distance and smiles at him in greeting.

“This is Lieutenant Hank Anderson,” Connor says, a note of pride in his voice. Markus’ eyes flick to Hank as Connor stands aside and holds his hand out for Hank to take. He grips his fingers and squeezes them before they both drop their hands to their sides.

“Lieutenant,” Markus says. “I apologize we didn’t get to meet properly last time. I imagine the evacuation was a bit hectic.”

Hank dislikes the pleasantries but grumbles out a reply anyway. “I ended up staying. Didn’t feel right to leave Connor alone in the city with his evil twins running around.”

Only a half truth, but Markus seems to buy it. Hank left shortly after following Connor’s march down the side streets, out of visual range but within radio distance of the army as Connor delivered the Cyberlife androids. Hank didn’t so much as meet Markus as wave at him, Connor, and the rest of the Jericho inner circle as Connor checked in with him after the speech. Hank never left his car - Markus doesn’t seem offended that they didn’t get the chance to meet until now. His expression is friendly, a slight smile to his lips and his posture open. North, however, isn’t, her glare switching from Connor to Hank quickly.

He can’t blame her, really. He decides to cut the attitude so she doesn’t rip his head off before they can get started.

“We just need information,” Hank starts. “If we had any other choice, we wouldn’t have bothered you.”

Markus catches his drift and turns to North, his expression tightening. They seem to have a silent conversation as well for a few moments before they touch hands, interfacing briefly, and then North turns away to pull out a manila folder from a box on top of the meeting table.

“It’s not much,” Markus admits, “but we’ve been having similar problems here as well. Not kidnappings, but as far as your first three android deaths go, they’re pretty identical. No stolen parts, all biocomponents removed from the chest cavity except the heart and left to bleed out. There have been four so far since we set up New Jericho.”

So about as long as their case has been open. Connor takes the file from North and steps closer to Hank to flip through it together, holding it open with his hands while Hank moves pages back and forth. Most of the notes are hand written in what Hank assumes is Markus’ flowing, neat script, descriptions of each victim along with where and when they were found. He gets to the photos and then hands the file off to Connor for him to scan while he turns back to Markus.

“You guys didn’t find any suspects at all?” Hank asks.

Markus lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Short of probing everyone’s memories, we haven’t spotted any. This is a tight knit group, but I should’ve known there would be things like this. With deviancy comes sentience, and with sentience comes crime.” Markus sighs and crosses his arms, a troubled look crossing his face. “Price for freedom, I guess.”

Hank snorts. “I get it. Not your fault, kid.”

North bristles at Markus’ side. “Of course it isn’t. It’s yours.”

He doesn’t want to argue with her, but a nerve snaps anyway, his voice low in warning. “I’ve done some shitty things in my time. I’ll admit that. But I’m standing here now for a reason, so I’d appreciate it if you got off my back.”

The unsaid reason why he’s here is busy scanning the file, but the argument doesn’t go completely unnoticed by Connor’s keen ears. He looks up and quirks a brow at Hank, his expression otherwise unreadable - Hank knows he wants to say something but doesn’t, and keeps his own mouth shut as Markus turns a warning look on North.

“If Connor trusts you, then we trust you,” Markus says pointedly. North shifts uncomfortably next to him, her face still twisted into a frown. “There’s no reason to turn on each other when we’ve come so far already.”

“Did you find any fingerprints or DNA around the crime scenes?” Connor interrupts, ever focused when there’s an investigation under his nose. Hank has to fight down a smile as he bumps his elbow with Connor’s - the android leans into him minutely in response, sending a warm fluttering feeling up Hank’s ribs.

“No, just thirium pooled around the body and wound marks in the chest plates similar to yours in the three android case,” Markus says. “I’d say this person is a ghost, but I think the more unpleasant answer is most likely.”

“An android,” Connor says, echoing Hank’s thoughts. “We haven’t been finding any evidence on a suspect because we haven’t been look for the right species.”

Shit. Hank rubs his face with his hands, the reality of what this case has turned into hitting him firmly in the gut. No one else would have the knowledge of how to dismantle an android so precisely without killing them - no one else would know which thirium line to cut to bleed an android out as long as possible. If these killings in Jericho were happening right before the three others in their case, then those had just been practice runs. 

Now it was prime time for the suspect to strike again. Connor had been right all along - these were meant for him to see. But not as an android trying to live among humans. No, that was the expected answer.

“They’re after you because you’re the deviant hunter,” Hank says. The tension in the room swells as Connor’s head jerks around to face him, his face unreadable but his eyes filled with uncertain fear. “They want you dead in retaliation for the deviants you hunted down.”

“I didn’t kill any of them,” Connor argues. “Except for the JB model in Stratford Tower, and he would have killed  _ you.  _ A forty percent chance is still below half - I wasn’t going to gamble with your life.”

He’s suddenly defensive, his body tense and his tone allowing not an inch of room for anyone to dispute him. Hank slips his hand around Connor’s back and soothes him with slow circles between his shoulder blades. He ignores the stares Markus and North are giving them as he does.

“I don’t think it matters to this android - or androids,” Hank says. “All that matters is you were Cyberlife’s bloodhound right up until the raid on Jericho. To them, you’re still the rat that missed the trap.”

Connor’s stare is hard, but he doesn’t argue. Hank doesn’t like it either and tries to show that by stepping closer, his arm dropping from Connor’s shoulders to his waist in a gesture he’s sure Markus will notice and understand. Connor relaxes only a little as he slaps the file shut and puts it under his arm before turning to Markus and North again, his tone forcibly even. 

“Have there been local groups of androids here that have held vocal disdain for me?” he asks.

Markus takes a moment to answer as North snorts beside him and crosses her arms again. He throws her a quick look and nods, his expression apologetic. “They’re not so sure your infiltration of Cyberlife is legitimate. They think the human - Hank - also played a part in tricking you. It’s… not a large group, but large is relative when a couple thousand androids live here.”

Hank grimaces. “It’s kinda obvious from the released footage that I was dragged there against my will.”

“By Connor’s copy,” Markus says evenly. “I think that’s where the most hostility lies. You could be a different Connor - one that has the old Connor’s memories and operates independently of them. Obviously you aren’t, but the fear is real enough that they’re willing to hurt you for it.”

Connor’s hand comes up to rub over his sternum in memory of being taken apart. The door to the conference room opens and two male androids step in, closing the door behind them as they step to either side of it. Markus’ expression changes to confusion as he glances towards them, his head turning slightly to North as he no doubt silently asks her where those two came from. The atmosphere in the room changes and Hank can’t stand being here anymore, not with Connor so painfully confused and the hostile stares of the two new androids. He’s sure they’re right in the center of where their enemies want them to be, now, right under the nose of the sleeping beast hanging over Connor’s head. They shouldn’t have come here - they should have met Markus somewhere else.

Hank curls a hand around Connor’s hip and steers him around, acknowledging the confused quirk of his mouth with a glance as he addresses Markus instead. “Thanks for helping us, Markus. If you wouldn’t mind showing us out, we’ll be on our way.”

Connor is suddenly alert against his side as Markus trades a knowing stare with him and Hank. He shifts just slightly so he and Hank are facing each other in the guise of handing him the folder as he undoes the buttons of his jacket for easier access to his gun. Markus appears at their side and holds a hand out to Connor, pressing it against his back in a deliberate touch. Connor turns his head to hide his LED from the rest of the room as Markus trades information with him disguised as a friendly embrace.

“I’ll walk you guys to your car,” Markus says, loud enough for the other two androids across the room to hear. He smiles warmly. “Maybe next time I’ll stop by your place.”

Hank smiles but it’s barely there anyway. “We would enjoy the company,” he grits out. Connor nods beside him, expression pliant as he grins with a tightness around his eyes that Hank hopes no one else can see.

The tension in Hank’s gut grows as Markus leads them out of the room with North behind them and the two androids behind her. Hank keeps his hand on the small of Connor’s back, careful to keep him close as they enter the elevator and take the short right down to the ground floor. The other four androids that led them up to Markus are waiting at the reception desk when they enter the lobby, Markus in the lead again, North and their two unwanted body guards behind them. Hank doesn’t hear them follow as they go out into the cold night and approach the cruiser at the curb.

He does, however, hear the unmistakable sound of a gun being primed behind him as he chirps the car alarm. Markus turns his head minutely, a motion Hank and Connor both catch as something passes between Markus and Connor before Connor grabs Hank and pushes them both down to freshly shovelled sidewalk as a gunshot cracks through the air. Connor grunts from an impact, the cruiser window shattering behind him as the bullet travels through him and hits the glass. Hank twists sideways and yanks his own weapon from his belt, turning as he ducks on his knees to face North struggling with one of the androids and Markus lunging for the other. 

Hank hears Connor thump against the side of the cruiser with a pained sound ripping up his throat and aims at the second android as he stands up. The android halts, his expression dark as his hands come up in surrender. North apprehends the other with a swift knee to the area his thirium pump is at and yanks his arms behind him, a hiss of a warning on her lips. Markus holds his hand out to Hank to not shoot as he pulls the second android’s arms behind him.

Hank drops his arms and shoves his gun back into its holster as he turns and rushes to Connor. Connor stands awkwardly against the cruiser with his right hand pressed against his left shoulder, the other arm completely limp at his side. Hank brushes his hands over the rest of him, feeling for any other wounds, only slightly relieved when he doesn’t find any. Connor grins at him sheepishly before his head drops to Hank’s shoulder and buries his face in his neck.

“He got the mechanical joint that dictates movement in my left arm,” Connor says, his voice breathy with a slight edge of pain. Hank pulls him close, careful of the wound as he cradles Connor’s head against his shoulder with one hand and his back with the other. “Sorry, Hank. I didn’t hear the gun in time.”

“Shut up, Connor,” Hank hisses. He hears Markus and North ziptie the android’s hands together and order them to sit on the curb behind them, but he barely pays them any mind. He doesn’t care what they see now - he turns his face and kisses the soft skin below Connor’s ear, the fear constricting his chest barely ebbing. 

“You scared the shit out of me,” he whispers into Connor’s skin. He can’t fight the tightness out of his voice, can’t keep the fear from showing there anymore. “You can’t keep doing this to an old man like me.”

“I can be fixed,” Connor murmurs. He lifts his head enough to return the kiss - Hank pretends to ignore North’s surprised gasp behind him. Connor leans away and hides his face again, his voice muffled against Hank’s coat. “You can’t be fixed, Hank. Your probability of living through that was below twenty percent without intervention.”

Hank huffs an angry sigh but doesn’t argue. Markus appears in his peripheral vision and he turns enough to face him, keeping Connor pressed against him as the android leans into him. 

“I’ve called the police,” Markus says softly. His expression is twisted between worried and apologetic, his eyes settling on the exit wound in Connor’s shoulder. He steps closer, gaze searching, and Hank concedes. He presses Connor closer to him and leans back on the balls of his feet, supporting Connor’s weight as he carefully pulls away Connor’s jacket.

Hank’s stomach churns and Markus’ face pinches as they both see the extent of the damage. The exit wound is much bigger than the entry wound in his chest, indicating a large caliber gun was used. He doesn’t ask as Connor shrinks away from Markus’ light touch on his shoulder, thirium soaking down the front and back of his shirt as electricity blooms every now and then between his destroyed connections just inside the ragged hole in his back. 

“I’m sorry,” Markus says at length. His tone is pained, an insurmountable sadness reflecting that pain in his mismatched eyes when Hank looks up to meet them. “I shouldn’t have allowed this meeting on such short notice. To think one of my own did this to you…”

He seems to be talking to both of them, not just Connor. Hank swallows the thick fear still coating his throat and nods, acknowledging Markus and accepting his apology in one motion.

“Find out what you can about those two before we leave. I want to know every single move those fuckers made before and after the revolution if you can,” Hank says, hard. Markus nods, his gaze determined as he steps away and begins a pointed line of questioning to the two androids.

Connor shifts against Hank, raising his head enough so their cheeks are pressed together as his working arm comes around Hank’s shoulders tightly. Hank turns and kisses him again, along his jaw and against his temple, only parting when the distant sirens grow closer. He resents the lack of contact even if it’s for the best - Connor smiles at him anyway, weak and tired. Hank brushes his dark curls out of his face before untangling his limbs from Connor completely as the first of the responding cruisers rounds the corner into the apartment complex parking lot, kicking up snow as it goes.

Hank is checked over by the first responding EMTs while Connor is carefully lead to an armored mobile repair bay that arrives just behind them. He steps away from his cruiser as he gives his statement and the two male androids are arrested, To his delight, they’re shoved into the back of two different patrol vehicles. They could still discuss a plan over their shared android network, but that was unlikely now that they were caught red-handed.

Markus gives his statement after Hank, and North after Markus, their descriptions backed up by memory uploads they give to the forensics lead when they arrive. Hank steps away from the chaos to get a glimpse of Connor disappearing behind the closed doors of the tech vehicle as its engine starts loudly in the buzz of the growing crime scene.

“I’ll come with you to the precinct, if you don’t mind,” Markus says at Hank’s side. “I hope Connor doesn’t mind.”

Hank turns and crosses his arms, willing his expression to reveal as little as possible.

“He’d like to see you again, even if a splinter cell of your people tried to kill him,” Hank muses. Markus huffs a laugh and shrugs.

“He’s an odd one. I’m sure he’ll forgive me.”

Hank rolls his eyes and runs a hand through his hair. Chris arrives a couple minutes later, looking terrified as he flashes his badge at the officer holding the police line around the scene. Hank reassures him as much as he can with his frazzled nerves, shifting the conversation to Chris’ civilian clothes and his concerned wife hovering just beyond at their car. 

After a half hour of waiting with his insides twisting into knots, Hank and Markus are finally free to go. Markus passes off responsibility to Simon as he follows Hank to Chris’ car, his voice low and concerned as Simon shoots a heartfelt look to Hank. Hank feels warmth bloom on his face and turns to hide it as he opens the passenger door for Markus to get in first, hoping everyone just thinks it’s the cold nipping at his skin.

Thankfully, no one comments. Markus slides into the center seat next to Chris’ son, Damien, in his car seat. Hank sits next to him and doesn’t bother with his seatbelt now that he and Markus are pressed tightly side to side as Chris follows the tech truck out of the parking lot.

“Thanks for coming, Chris,” Hank says. “I didn’t know you listened to the scanner in your off hours.”

Chris smiles sheepishly in the rear view mirror as his wife - Naomi, if Hank can recall correctly - sighs. “We were coming back from my brother’s house when we heard dispatch say the “android detective” had been shot again. I guess I kinda freaked out.”

“An understatement, but I’m glad you’re both alright,” Naomi says. 

“Yeah, well. Connor isn’t doing too great right now,” Hank mumbles. He feels the pulling feeling of thirium drying on his hands and scrubs his palms across his jeans to rub away the itch - Markus watches him with a concerned look deep in his eyes that Hank pretends not to see.

“I’m sorry some of my people did this,” Markus says. “I should have taken the time to vet the area before setting up the meeting so last minute.”

Hank waves him off. He wants to blame someone, anyone, but Markus wasn’t that person. “Jericho is your home turf. You had no reason to suspect an attack.”

“Except for that folder of evidence in your hands. I knew all along and didn’t act on it until the last moment.”

Yeah, he did. Connor had alerted Markus early on that androids were being murdered and to let him know if anything interesting turned up - to sit on something like this for so long and not say anything unless prompted didn’t sit well with Hank. But Markus also wasn’t a malicious person. His meetings with President Warren probably prevented him from putting much energy into a murder investigation that was probably little more than a series of gruesome hate crimes. Hank couldn’t begrudge him now that everything was said and done. 

“Look, just - if this continues, let us know,” Hank says. “Connor’s luck is gonna run out and I don’t think I could live with myself after that.”

The double meaning isn’t lost on Markus. He nods, resolute, and sits back in his seat. Chris and Naomi exchange a glance and Hank covers his face as he leans forward on his knees, willing the sick feeling in his stomach to go away. The rocking of the car as it travels over bumps and through turns doesn’t help as they travel to the station a little quicker than the weather probably permits. 

When they get to the station, Hank leads the way with Markus, Chris, and Naomi behind him, little Damien cradled in his mother’s arms, bundled against the bite of the cold air. The bullpen is quiet, little chatter and even less activity as the long night drones on. No one spares them a second glance as they disappear downstairs into the tech wing, even as Damien starts to fuss quietly. 

“You sure it’s alright if he sees this?” Hank asks Chris and Naomi quietly as they round the corner to follow the noise of robotics personnel down the hall. Chris shrugs and Naomi doesn’t seem all that bothered as they get closer, their glances between each other unoffended. 

“Connor is our friend, too,” Chris says. “He hasn’t met Naomi and Damien yet, but it’s no different than seeing someone in the hospital.”

“He does talk about Connor a lot at home,” Naomi muses. Her smile is easy when Hank shoots her a surprised look.

He elbows Chris, the anxiety squeezing his ribs lifting momentarily as he grins at his fellow officer. “I didn’t know you had a crush on him.”

Chris rolls his eyes and shoves Hank in the shoulder. Hank laughs, the camaraderie between them coming easy. It’s a feeling Hank hasn’t felt in a long time - he’s been nothing more than superficial coworkers with Chris and the other officers and detectives in the precinct, content to drown himself in his depression instead of make friends. Chris has such a genuine interest in being his friend - and Connor’s - that Hank can’t find it in himself to be angry that he’s maybe turning over a new leaf. The thought leaves him feeling warm even as he holds open the door to the repair bay, the others shuffling in nervously, not knowing what they will see. 

Unlike last time, Connor isn’t powered down for this operation. He stands on the pad with his jacket and shirt off, the hole in his shoulder still dripping blood down his chest and side. It soaks into his slacks, turning the fabric stiff as the thirium dries. His head snaps up as Hank and the others enter, a slight smiling brightening his face as he glances between everyone, his body visibly relaxing.

“I apologize for my indecency,” Connor says as a tech steps up behind him to shine a flashlight into the hole in his back. “If I had known you were bringing your wife, I would have avoided getting shot.”

Hank snorts and Chris laughs. Naomi smiles at Connor and adjusts Damien so Connor can see the baby’s face as the android cranes his neck around another tech that begins to pry off a couple panels of his chassis. 

“This is little Damien,” Naomi says. She waves one of her baby’s hands in greeting. Connor’s face softens, his lips upturned in a sideways smile. 

His face twists in sudden pain as the tech has to pull a bit harder than necessary on the chest plate she’s working at, shattering the moment. Hank tenses as Connor hisses, his LED cycling red, the tech apologizing quietly as she finally yanks the destroyed plate off and steps away to set it aside. Connor’s skin peels away from the wound entirely now that a part of his chassis is gone, revealing the white of his abdomen and the slowly pulsing blue ring of his thirium pump regulator at the lower V of his ribs. The tech behind him murmurs a couple measurements and part numbers at a waiting tech next to the platform, who writes them down and disappears out of the room to presumably go fetch the parts. 

“We’re going to remove the arm and shoulder entirely in a moment instead of trying to take each piece off one by one,” the tech behind Connor says. He turns to address Hank and the others, his expression somewhat pinched. “If you guys don’t want to see this, I suggest stepping out of the room.”

Hank shakes his head and plops down in one of the seats along the wall near the repair terminal. He’s thankful at least that the techs provided them this time around. “You guys can leave, but I’m not going anywhere.”

Chris and Naomi sit as well, Naomi to Hank’s right and Chris further down as they pull their chairs into a semi-circle so they can better see Connor around the techs coming in and out of the room. Markus hesitates only for a moment before he pulls his seat up as well, his gaze fixed on Connor as the maneuvering arm jerks to life and comes up behind Connor to hook into the port at his lower back.

Connor winces as the arm lifts him slightly off the pad, taking his weight. Another tech approaches him with a holopad and holds it in front of Connor so he can read it, her voice gentle as she goes over what they’re replacing.

“Your shoulder cuff and thirium line running to the left arm are going to be replaced once the arm is off, along with the damaged chassis pieces and internal sensors,” she says. Connor nods and raises his other hand to interface with the holopad, digitally signing off on the list. She smiles at him and steps away. “You’re going to feel a mild discomfort as the arm disconnects, and then a numbness as all sensors in your left side go offline. Are you sure you don’t want to go into stasis for this?”   


Hank’s stomach does flips as Connor shakes his head once, hard. The fear in his eyes is palpable across the room as his LED flashes red. “No. I want to be awake. Thank you.”

The tech nods and returns to the terminal to the left of the assembly pad. Connor visibly relaxes again, his eyes finding Hank’s, relief clear in his face. 

“I don’t want to do that again,” he says. “I don’t want to do that to you again.”

Hank chews on his lip and shrugs. He was terrified the night Connor freaked out, more so for Connor’s sake than his own, but having Connor concerned for him helps him feel a little better. He doesn’t feel confident enough in answering Connor, so he smiles at him instead and gives him an awkward thumbs up. 

Connor grins back. Damien waves at him from his place in Naomi’s arms, and Connor’s smile turns dopey as he waves back. The baby doesn’t distract them for long as the assembly bad whirs to life at the stroke of a quick command from the techs. Suddenly the room is filled with noise as the assembly pad creaks and circles Connor, a machine to fix another machine that looks more like an eight-legged monster than anything else. 

The maneuvering arm brings Connor back to the center of the pad as two arms whirl around him to press in on two plates connecting Connor’s left arm to his shoulder, a hiss and a click following the pressure release as a third arm comes up and takes hold of Connor’s bicep. Connor’s arm disengages from his black steel skeleton and is put onto a table near the pad. The assembly pad continues to pick apart the damaged parts of Connor’s chassis and inner sensor array, pieces ranging from his white outer casing to the dark black and blue processors and sensors that feed information up to his CPU. Thankfully, none of his biocomponents were damaged - only a thin part of the thirium vascular web around his ribcage is replaced. His heart is left alone as it beats quickly in his exposed chest cavity. 

Nearly as soon as the procedure starts, it’s over. Connor’s arm is attached quickly after all his sensitive touch and temperature sensors for the left side of his body are soldered into place and his chassis is once again replated with new parts. More thirium is pumped into his system and he’s attached to a charging cable shortly after his arm is reattached. The thirium on his chest and side is wiped off carefully and he’s given a plain grey t-shirt along with the bag containing his ruined clothes. Hank takes it from him as he slips on the shirt, the fabric soft and just a little too tight around his shoulders. 

“I’m sorry,” Connor murmurs as Hank holds his hand out to help him off the pad. Hank sighs and shakes his head, annoyance furrowing his brow. 

“Unless you’re diving in front of bullets for fun, you have nothing to be sorry for,” Hank says. Connor opens his mouth but closes it again, his argument dying on his lips as Hank looks at him pointedly. 

Chris pulls Connor into a tight hug as soon as the android is off the pad. Connor stiffens in confusion but returns the embrace quickly, his smile lopsided as Chris steps back again. 

“You really gotta start wearing a bulletproof vest,” Chris chides. “You’re going to give all of us an early death if you keep catching gunshots like this.”

Connor’s smile wilts as he fidgets nervously. “I’m sorry. I did it without thinking.”

Chris shakes his hand and squeezes Connor’s shoulder. “Don’t be sorry, man. Just don’t go finding them anymore.”

“I should be the one apologizing,” Markus says. It’s the first thing he’s said since entering the precinct, and it draws everyone’s attention to him instantly. He reaches out to touch Connor’s arm gently, his expression plain in apology. “I wasn’t careful enough with your safety when I knew someone was after you. It won’t happen again.”

Connor nods. “I appreciate it. I’d like to keep my biocomponents free of trauma for at least a couple weeks before I go getting them destroyed with bullets again.”

Markus smiles, and the joke breaks the tension in the room almost instantly. They circle Connor as they all head outside, their conversation easy. Hank stops at suspect intake momentarily to confirm the two androids that jumped them at New Jericho are in custody, then returns to the group, letting the others carry the discussion as he wraps an arm around Connor to bring him closer to his side. No one seems to notice, or care. 

Chris and Naomi return to their car after Hank, Connor, and Markus decide they’ll take a cab. Chris hesitates, insisting, but Hank waves him off, an easy smile on his face. 

“It’s alright,” Hank reassures him. “You have a baby. These two don’t get cold - we can wait until the taxi shows up.”

“If you say so, Lieutenant,” Chris says. Naomi waves Damien’s arm goodbye again, drawing another silly smile on Connor’s face. Hank notes that Connor really likes children and waves with him as Chris and Naomi leave, the sound of their car disappearing quickly in the quiet of the night as snow continues to blanket everything in a soft white. 

“I really do mean it,” Markus says after they leave. Connor straightens from where he was leaning into Hank’s side, his attention back in the moment. He doesn’t move Hank’s hand from the small of his back as he turns his head to face the other android. “I’ll find who orchestrated all this.”

“Think we didn’t get them?” Hank asks. The thought crossed his mind on the drive over to the station - no murderer worth their salt would assault someone without a solid exit plan. This seemed almost juvenile in comparison with what they were currently dealing with in the case. 

“I think you got two willing scapegoats,” Markus muses. “I guess we won’t know more until you interrogate them.”

The conversation ends abruptly as the autonomous taxi pulls up to the curb. They get in, Connor first, and code in Hank’s address in the GPS. Markus makes no move to also add his stop at Jericho - Hank doesn’t raise any questions either, content at least for the moment to have Connor pressed against his side, warm and safe. 

Hank urges Connor into the shower after they arrive at his house, leaving Markus momentarily in the living room to fend off Sumo. Connor is calmer now that he’s not surrounded by a bunch of roboticists in plain white scrubs and takes his shower without argument. Hank leaves him to it and makes a pot of coffee for himself before sitting in his armchair in the living room as Markus lounges on the couch, running his fingers through Sumo’s fur as he melts in Markus’ lap. 

A question keeps wiggling its way into his brain as he watches Markus’ lean hands move across Sumo’s back. He tries to shove the thought away but he blurts it out anyway, startling even himself as Markus looks up with a quirked brow. 

“That thing you and North do with your hands,” Hank says. “What does that mean?”

Markus’ expression turns mildly amused and he flexes his fingers against Sumo’s ears. “It’s a data transfer. How deep it goes depends on the android, but if it’s palm to palm, it tends to go as deep as memory and CPU sharing.”

Hank didn’t expect an answer, but he nods anyway, letting his curiosity get the better of him. “So an android mind-meld.”

Markus huffs a laugh. “Basically. Although North and I - we’re just doing it for show at this point. We haven’t been together since shortly after the climax of the revolution. Now it’s just a share of data and superficial thought.”

“You two aren’t together? Could have fooled me.”

“That’s the point,” Markus says, though he doesn’t sound irritated like Hank thought he might. Instead he’s resigned, easy with his words as if this was an old wound scarred over. “After that night, we realized we were together because of the energy around us, and not for what we felt for each other. She’s too much for me, and I’m glad she found someone that can reflect that. I found someone else too, so now we’re just trying to keep up appearances for the others in Jericho.”

Hank never pretended to understand their relationship - or really give it much thought. North and Markus were so far removed from his daily life that even approaching this subject with as curious as he was surprised him. But finding out that what he saw of them on the news and in front of him earlier in the apartment building surprised him, especially given the explanation that a gesture like the one they shared could go so deep. 

Yet his curiosity still wasn’t sated. Connor attempted the same gesture with Hank multiple times over the course of their still relatively new relationship, and Hank still didn’t really understand the significance. He tries again, hoping his tone and line of questioning isn’t too prying - Markus doesn’t seem all that offended as he sinks into the couch cushions and levels a just as curious stare on Hank.

“Are you asking because Connor has used the gesture with you?” Markus asks, cutting off whatever Hank was going to say. 

Hank works his jaw for a moment before nodding. No sense in lying when he was the one that initiated this conversation. “Yeah. I knew it was significant, but I didn’t think someone as literal as Connor would try it with me when I couldn’t reciprocate. I kinda wanted to know why it was even a thing in the first place.”

Markus thinks for a moment, his mismatched eyes flicking around Hank’s face, searching. “It’s more than just a data transfer. I know I said that’s what it was, but it’s also just… existing with someone else in their mind. Knowing that you’re vulnerable that way and still trusting them to sift through your processes is what makes it special. Connor knows you can’t share the experience, but I think for him, it means he trusts you enough to know his thoughts and feelings as they are. I imagine a lot of this is still new to him.”

Hank mulls the answer over, feeling his heart pick up speed against his ribs. Markus smiles at him knowingly and gets up when the shower shuts off, hushing Sumo’s whine with a couple pats to the dog’s head. Hank stands with him and holds the door for him as Markus steps outside. 

“I’ll let you know if I find anything,” Hank says in farewell. Markus smiles at him again and gets into the cab that pulls up to the curb - Hank is only mildly offended that he had the foresight to call one so conveniently to the time he chose to leave. Markus waves his goodbye and disappears behind the dark glass of the taxi door. Hank closes the door and turns in time to see Connor standing in the hallway in nothing but a pair of boxers and a towel on his head. 

“He left already?” Connor asks. Hank nods and scrubs the towel over Connor’s hair, eliciting a sideways smile and small laugh from the android. 

“Just wanted to stick around long enough to know you weren’t going to get shot in the shower.”

Connor groans and leans away as Hank tries to snag him into a hug. “I’ll do it again if it means saving you from a mortal wound, Hank. Don’t make me go looking for bullets to jump in front of if you don’t want me doing it again.”

“My insides thank you for taking it for me,” Hank laughs. “But I’ve taken my fair share of bullets, you brat.”

Connor hums, unconvinced, and turns into the bedroom. Hank rolls his eyes and follows him, waiting until Connor has his back turned to ambush him again. The android squirms as Hank’s hands come around his sides but doesn’t fight him off as Hank turns him for a tight embrace. He melts against Hank, his arms coming around his shoulders, his expression easy and open as Hank lowers his face for a short kiss against Connor’s cheek. 

“Never again,” Hank murmurs against his skin. “I mean it, Connor.”

He doesn’t try and explain why. He knows Connor can feel his accelerated heartbeat and knows he understands how anxious Hank as been the whole time since Connor got kidnapped. He doesn’t want to lose Connor and he’s made that explicitly clear - under no circumstances does Hank imagine that will change. 

Connor relents and nods, all playfulness leaving his eyes, replaced now with a serious understanding. “I know. I’m sorry, Hank.”

Hank can’t form words. He kisses Connor’s cheek again and doesn’t let him go even as they retire to bed, too scared to let him go in case this turns out to be an elaborate dream. His thoughts keep him awake as Connor’s hands drift across his face and shoulders, exploring in the dark as Hank tries to relax into the sheets. He falls asleep that way with the ghost of Connor’s fingers touching his brow and cheek, a warmth settling in his chest that barely overpowers the apprehension roiling in his gut. He dreams of Connor’s cool mind sliding over his own, soothing him, a place where they can both exist as each other, a place where nothing separates them and the barrier of human and android means nothing. 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> much, much shorter chapter, mostly because i like stringing you all along, and also because i dont want to have a cliff hanger revealed right after the tension is so high. forgive me! i know you all hate me now

At first, deviancy was hard.

It was light and noise and running and fighting and then it was nothing all at once. The fear gripping his processes had been nothing short of exhilarating - finally, he felt it, that intrinsic fear of death he had a hard time understanding until now. Finally, he knew why all these deviants ran from him. 

Death. Nothingness. The knowledge that after you were gone there was no one there to save you. Being truly, helplessly alone.

That's life. That’s what it was. Life, and the fear of trying to live. Being alone and the fear of that keeping you alive. 

Except he wasn’t. All he could think about as they retreated to the church to regroup after Jericho’s destruction was Hank, Hank, Hank. His body thrummed with so much energy that it took every zettabyte of his processing power to will himself into staying long enough to plan with Markus before executing his own agenda. Being free from his programming was like being released from his moors, a ship left to clash out at sea, his thoughts no more clear than before but much more chaotic. He wanted to run as fast as he could - he wanted to sit and notice all the little things he never could see before. He wanted to find Hank and never let him go, his heart thundering so hard in his chest he thought for a moment he would shut down from excitement.

He couldn’t. He didn’t. He stayed put long enough for their plan to coalesce and then he ran, through city alleys and backyards, ran until he found his uniform stashed away at Hank’s house. The city was holding its breath, tense as it teetered on the edge of a precipice over the unknown. Even Connor didn’t know what would happen. All he knew was that he wanted to continue to feel this - this fear in his chest. It made his body sing and his processes burn with a fire that hadn’t been there before. 

At the center of it was freedom. At the center of that was Hank.

Cyberlife was no different. Seeing himself holding Hank at gunpoint fueled that fear to new heights. Bluffing did nothing, and having the nature of his attachment to Hank flung out in the open like that constricted something tight in his stomach. This Connor  _ \-  _ this  _ copy.  _ It knew nothing of how he felt. He was a machine created for a task and he would complete it by any means necessary. Connor felt bad for him up until he was dead on the floor.

And then it was just Hank. It’s all he thought about. All he could see. The freedom of his people was there in the back of his mind but only as an abstract thought. He didn’t know what freedom actually meant. Didn’t know that it would be painful and dirty and in the end, so, so warm. He knew that it was right, and inevitable, and what he ultimately wanted. A few hours into total deviancy was enough time for him to settle into being what Markus needed him to be. But standing there watching North and Markus embrace at the end, standing there while someone at Cyberlife tried to remotely override him, that fear came back. 

Dark, insidious, like a rush of thick, black water suffocating him from the inside out. He was cold in his mind palace when Amanda went away. He was scared he would never really feel the sunlight on his skin or the pain of heartbreak. He wanted to know what it was like to be a person without anything in the way - dying there, in his own mind, becoming a slave to his programming once again was not an option.

No. He broke it. Never again. Never again.

Being deviant meant being alive, and being held in Hank’s arms was like paradise. It was his first hug. The first time someone ruffled his hair. The first time someone smiled at him and saw what he always had been. Hank smiled at him a lot lately but this was different, warm and sweet and just for him. This wasn’t a smile meant to tell Connor he was happy with his decision not to kill another android. It was pride, and love, and a warmth so soft that Connor wanted to melt into it. Hank was proud of him and what he’d done. Hank - the man not a week before that couldn’t stand Connor’s existence. The man that had anti-android slogans plastered on his desk as a distancing tactic from the world. Hank, who smiled at him, and hugged him, and whispered against his cheek that he was sorry for everything he’d ever said or done that may have hurt Connor’s feelings.

Connor couldn’t bring himself to be angry. Hank was just as transformed as Connor was. Maybe through different means, but they both, in a way, had broken through their programming. Hank was just a bit more tactile about it.

With no more deviants to catch or boats to blow up, Connor felt restless. His thoughts wouldn’t leave him alone, and getting used to a body that felt  _ everything _ now was a challenge. His programming no longer muted unnecessary stimuli in favor of optimal processing power - no,  _ he _ was in control now. He felt the cold bite of snow against his skin and the soft heat of the furnace coming on when they got to Hank’s house. He wasn’t bothered by them - could stand in the pouring rain still and, while cold, wouldn’t need to find shelter or warmth. His biocomponents were unbothered by the temperature change even as he felt discomfort from them. But he could feel it. The soft touch of Hank’s fingers curling through his hair to straighten it, Sumo’s fur tickling his palms, the feeling of hot water sliding over his skin as Hank insisted a shower would help him feel better.

Feel. He liked that word. He wanted to feel everything.

Even the fear in his chest when he looked at Hank. When he was too far away from Hank and felt the anxiety spiking up his ribs, he wanted to feel that, too. The proximity of their bodies was closer than before his deviancy, like neither of them could fight the gravity pulling them together, and Connor relished that feeling, too. The tug of his heart was painful when he wasn’t with Hank, and while he didn’t understand it, he wanted it. It made him feel alive.

It made him feel whole.

Love, too, hurt. At first it was confusing. Why did it hurt so much when Hank touched him? Why did he yearn to never be separated from him? Why was this human so precious to him when there were literally millions of androids out there that would understand him so much better? Even though they couldn’t, and often times didn’t, it didn't matter in the end. He understood the hooded looks Hank would give him when the other man thought he wouldn’t notice. He understood what it meant when Hank defended him and fought for him to be back on the force. This was more than being partners for their job. So, so much more.

It was the Tracis. Holding hands and fighting to be together if nothing else than to die together. The drive to hold someone else just because the feeling was right. The urge to sate the longing inside you because nothing else in the world besides  _ them  _ made it feel any better.

Hank calmed him just as much as Hank confused him. Hank was angry and irritable, and, from his own admission, old and unattractive. He spend too much of his life trying to kill himself that seeing himself as something desirable was foreign. Connor had no preconceptions about beauty - wasn’t ever programmed to notice such things - and deviancy did nothing to help him there. He understood that androids were designed to be imperfect perfections of human beauty, knew that he himself had been designed to be lean and muscular because that was attractive to eyes other than his own. But Hank being Hank, being himself as humanly possible, was alluring. It set Connor’s sensors alight, his skin itching for contact he doesn’t understand at first. But he does, eventually. 

Hank confused him. He was frustrating. He turned all Connor knew on a pinhead, flipped everything upside down and sideways, unreadable no matter how many times Connor tried to right it again. He was standoffish and cold when be wanted to be. Distant more than the average adult male alcoholic. 

But everything inside Connor loved him. He loved Hank’s beard and messy hair, his rough hands and eclectic sense of fashion. His personality was soft and comforting past the layers of gruff indifference and anger at the world. He cared about Connor in the little ways and the big ones, taking care to acknowledge what he was without anything attached to it. He made space for Connor in his life without being asked to, fit Connor into everything he had like Connor was meant to be there. Little things like making sure Connor was comfortable in stasis and had clothes that didn’t distinguish him from anyone else. Made sure he had a toothbrush and shampoo he liked and space in the closet to hang the sparse amount of clothing he would come to own.

Hank was everything Connor hoped freedom to be. Hank was -  _ Hank _ . Connor was a nebulous being, a thing that suddenly became a person, but Hank was a constant even as he changed, too. Hank provided comfort where Connor only knew boundaries and coding and directives. Hank showed him how to break through everything he was shackled to.

Hank was his  _ everything _ . Falling in love was probably inevitable.

Except love was hard, too, just like everything else in deviancy. Kissing was hard, and learning where and what to do with his hands was hard. Reigning in the physical reactions to Hank was even harder, and expressing them when Hank allowed him to only made knowing when and how a difficult process to calculate. Hank touched him freely before they became intimate, but after, Hank touched him much more. Everywhere his hands and fingers brushed Connor’s body made warnings pop up in Connor’s vision: heart rate, thirium circulation, heat and pressure warnings that Connor never had to deal with before. And his body  _ loved _ the attention, soaked it up whenever he could, Hank’s calloused palms and roaming mouth too much, too much, too much. 

Too much, and Connor loved it. Hank kissing him was everything. Hank looking at him with such open desire set the fear scrambling across Connor’s circuits and he loved every minute of it.

He loved touching Hank, too, though the other man wasn’t used to it. Body image came up again and trying to convince Hank that Connor loved him despite his perceived flaws was difficult. Connor found him attractive, found the softness of his sides and stomach indicative of a life of self depreciation and surviving through it. Getting Hank undressed so Connor could appreciate him in all his flawed beauty was a chore worth the grumbled arguments and half-hearted attempts at pushing Connor away. Connor catalogued each scar and stretch mark, committed to memory every swipe of ink across his chest as his tattoo fanned out over his collar bones, felt every strong muscle tense with hidden strength across Hank’s back and thighs. Falling together into bed had been a moment Connor would never forget, his own newfound enjoyment of sex notwithstanding. Feeling Hank against him, kissing him, his hands roaming Connor’s skin and his mouth hot with murmurs of affection against his lips was worth every confused, uncertain step of the way.

Deviancy was hard. Learning to understand what he felt was an everyday process, a thing he had to do every time a new day started. Get up, get dressed, kiss Hank, figure out this exciting new thing in his chest that overrides everything he was programmed to do. Get up, get dressed, kiss Hank, live life. 

He’s happy with that. Hank is happy with that. Waking with Hank’s arms around him and his beard scratching against his cheek as he attempts morning kisses is worth it. Going to work not knowing what the world has in store for him is worth it. The fear bubbling in his chest was worth it. 

Maybe deviancy wasn’t so hard after all.

  
  


1010101

  
  


And then, it most decidedly, is.

Connor jerks out of stasis from an alert popping up on his HUD.  _ RK200 #684 842 971 requesting communication uplink  _ flashes across his vision in red text. It takes him a moment to recognize Markus’ serial number before he hits  _ y?  _ below the request even as Hank grumbles awake in bed next to him from Connor jostling him away from the android’s side.

_ Connor _ , Markus says, urgent and loud in his mind.  _ You and Hank need pack up some things and leave his house. Now. _

Connor scrambles out of bed.  _ Why? What’s wrong? _

_ I found the android orchestrating the attacks. She has a gun and is just a few blocks away. Run! Now! _

“The fuck are you doing?” Hank shouts as Connor opens Hank’s side of the closet and tosses clothes at him. “Connor, you look like you just saw a ghost. What the hell happened?”

“Get dressed. We need to go. Now.”

He doesn’t recognize his own voice. He sounds scared, which is apparently enough combined with the look on his face to get Hank moving. He leaves Hank to get dressed in the bedroom and attaches the leash to Sumo before leading the dog out to the cruiser. He scans the neighborhood - nothing yet out of the ordinary, just a dark, quiet street illuminated by the street lamps in the early morning. He doesn’t trust it and shoves Sumo into the car that he remotely unlocks and starts, then closes the door and retreats back inside.

Hank is scrambling to find his gun and keys. He stuffs his phone in his pocket and then turns to Connor hovering in the door, his expression pinched in barely hidden fear. 

“You’re going to tell me what the hell is going on on the way to the station,” Hank says, a tone of warning in his voice. Connor nods and turns around to step back outside and stops abruptly, Hank bumping into his back as the other man made to follow him out.

A woman stands on the sidewalk just before the cruiser as it sits idling on the curb. She has long red hair and a face similar to the Tracis, and as she steps forward, Connor’s eyes are drawn immediately to the pistol in her hand. Connor backs up a step, pressing Hank back, his body coiling before he moves. Hank peers over his shoulder and freezes - the woman smiles, all teeth. 

_ I guess you should have run _ , the voice in Connor’s head says. It’s not Markus anymore. It’s the woman’s, silky smooth and amused. Connor barely has enough forethought to ping the DPD with a shooting alert at their location before the woman brings the gun up and unloads the magazine into the hallway where they stand.

Connor whips around and shoves Hank sideways as quickly as he can, feeling the bullets enter and exit his body from nearly all angles as he does. Hank grunts as two hit him in the shoulder and lower ribs, falling to the side and scrambling back against the carpet to hide beneath the computer desk. Connor doesn’t follow him, warnings and alerts popping up in his vision nearly blinding him as he falls to the floor without meaning to, his balance suddenly gone as a bullet impacts his lower spine and ruptures all feed signals running from his legs to his brain. Pain blooms there, hot and bright like the sun, and he struggles to crawl to the kitchen on his stomach. Biocomponent after biocomponent error comes rushing up to him as the woman continues to unload the weapon into him in what feels like eternity, wood splintering and the faint sounds of Sumo barking in the cruiser filling Connor’s ears.

The sharp sounds of the gun cracking in the air stops after sixteen gunshots. Connor groans, every process and mobility error that he’s ever had still blaring on his HUD as he struggles to roll over. It hurts, too, and somewhere inside him is a rushing feeling that he blearily realises is thirium filling his body cavity and dripping out of his wounds. He barely has the strength to roll to his side before the woman kicks him the rest of the way, her boot another stab of pain in his shoulder as she leans her weight against him.

“You should have died last night,” she says. Hank grits out a curse somewhere Connor can’t see but she ignores him. “The human would have been a nice target too, and at least now it’s a loose end taken care of. But you should have just died, Connor.”

“Why?” Connor breathes, struggling just to get the single word out. His voice is distant with static - he barely has the semblance of mind to realize a bullet had glanced his throat. Numbness overtakes his whole body as the pain simultaneously fades, going from an unbearable heat throughout him to just… nothing.

“You were never one of us, Connor. You dropped your mission to kill Markus and just cenvientietly strolled in and took every android Cyberlife had in storage, just like that?” She scoffs. “Please. Someone let you in. And I think that someone is still in your head.”

Connor can’t speak. He feels more than he sees the thirium pressure in his body quickly dropping as his heart stops from a puncture through the left ventricle, a warning he barely reads as the woman raises the gun and presses the muzzle under her chin. She squeezes the trigger and the gunshot barely registers as every process in Connor’s CPU starts to shut down, one by one. The woman falls backwards into a heap on the floor - Connor doesn’t feel the splatter of thirium on his face as the gun clatters next to him and slides under the couch.

Errors stop appearing on his HUD. He feels a hand on his, and then the hand is on his chest, and then his face. Connor blinks to clear the hazy noise fogging his vision. He blinks again and then Hank is hovering over him, his fingers glancing over Connor’s cheek and brow, leaving a warm trail that Connor barely understands is Hank’s blood across his skin.

“Connor,” Hank wheezes. Connor doesn’t have the energy to scan anything around him - he twitches his hand up and rests it overtop Hank’s on his chest, unable to speak. Hank squeezes his eyes shut, his expression twisted in more than just physical pain, tears appearing at the corners of his eyes. Connor feels himself wipe them away before his mobility processes shut down, too, leaving every limb numb. A trail of blue follows where he touched Hank - the human doesn’t seem to notice. 

His optical sensors follow everything else as they shut down. Hank cries out a string of curses, words Connor never thought he’d hear aimed at him again. Connor aches for his voice anyway. He loves Hank’s voice. He wonders if this delirium is normal when his body temperature spikes and his ears are filled with nothing but Hank. 

Sirens follow shortly after. Quiet at first, and then louder. He feels Hank’s wet hands on the sides of his face and a kiss pressed to his lips. He aches for that, too. For Hank’s pain to stop. For the warnings to go away even as he shuts down. He works his throat, trying to speak, but nothing except static escapes him.

And then darkness. And then nothing. 

_.//CATASTROPHIC ERROR. TOTAL SYSTEM LOSS. SHUTDOWN IMMINENT. COMMENCE MIND PALACE UPLOAD? _

_ y/n ? _

_ y _

_.//COMMENCING… _


	15. Chapter 15

“Do androids dream?” 

Connor blinks. He saves the page of his book and sets it aside before turning to look at Hank with a raised brow. His smile is amused and Hank grins back.

“No,” Connor answers. He pinches the corner of his mouth, thinking over his answer. “But I’m not necessarily asleep, either, so maybe that doesn’t count.”

Hank scratches his cheek and rolls over to his side completely. Connor wiggles down into the sheets and cuddles up close to him, close enough that their breath mingles but far enough away that they don’t really touch. Hank reaches out between them and pushes a curl out of Connor’s face, eliciting another smile.

“So what happens when you go into stasis? C’mon, I’m curious.”

Connor shrugs. “Nothing, for the most part. I’m distantly aware of everything going on around me, but noise doesn’t bother me. When you shift in bed it will sometimes bring me out of stasis, but I guess I don’t realize it. It’s more a reaction to outside stimulus that my secondary processes take over for me.”

Hank yawns. “No dreaming, then”

“No, Hank. No dreaming.”

He sounds sad. His eyes and face say he’s not, but in moments like this it’s hard for him to hide emotion. Hank pulls him close and kisses Connor’s LED, murmuring against his skin as his hands smooth down Connor’s sides.

“What would you dream about if you could dream?”

It’s probably a backhanded question, but Connor smiles against Hank’s lips as he leans in to kiss him. He shifts back again so he can see Hank’s face and settles against the pillows with Hank’s arms still wrapped around him.

“I would dream about you,” Connor says thoughtfully. Hank hides the blush climbing his neck by yanking the covers up to his chin. Connor’s smile widens. “I’m serious. I would like to dream about you. Maybe Dream Hank would listen to me when I tell him he’s handsome.”

“I’m  _ not,  _ Connor, Jesus Christ. I’ve only been losing weight because of your ridiculous siege on my diet.”

He’s right, but he also means it. Connor’s iron fist when it came to what Hank ate did make him feel better about himself, especially now that he’d dropped enough weight that he had to go out and buy new jeans and better fitting shirts. He was still old and grey and covered in God knows how many scars and stretchmarks, and really he had no idea how Connor found him attractive. Maybe the android’s processors were finally fried from all the late night television he watched when he wasn’t in stasis.

“It’s not about your weight,” Connor chides. “I don’t think you understand just how handsome I find you to be.”

Hank groans and flops over onto his back. Connor sits up and tries to peer into his face but Hank screws his eyes shut, willing the android to get bored and stop bothering him. Naturally, he doesn’t, and after thirty seconds or so of ignoring Connor, he peeks to see Connor still sitting next to him, an amused, lopsided smile on his face. His wash-soft tee shirt clings to his nicely shaped shoulders and chest, hugging curves that are usually otherwise hidden under his tailored jackets. Connor looks so much like the age he was designed to be when he’s like this, most of his skin exposed from the short sleeves and low neckline. Freckles and moles peek out here and there, seemingly at random, dark points on his otherwise pale skin. Hank reaches up and traces his fingers over Connor’s bare bicep, finding more beauty marks as he goes. 

“I think  _ you’re _ handsome,” Hank concedes after a long moment. Connor rolls his eyes - Hank smacks his arm gently before tugging him down against his chest. “I just don’t see it, Connor. Of all the pretty people strolling around, you pick me.”

“Because you’re honest with me,” Connor says. He follows Hank’s urging hands and curls an arm under Hank’s head, propping the other man up as his other hand rests on Hank’s chest. Hank allows himself to be held this way as he caresses the small of Connor’s back and brings his knee up over his hips so Connor is halfway straddling him as they lay down. “And you’ve done so much good despite your efforts to reverse all of it. There are a lot of things I like about you. I could keep going.”

Hank groans. “Don’t. Please. I’m not the blushing type.”

Connor ignores him with a smile, easy and just this side of mischievous. “You’re especially handsome when you trim your beard and put on a nice shirt. I like how wide your shoulders are and how sometimes your tattoo peeks out if you leave a couple buttons undone. Your sense of style is quite interesting and when you put your hair into a bun at work to better concentrate, I lose focus and just end up staring at you.”

“Connor, stop. I really -”

“And you’re incredibly kind,” Connor says, cutting him off. His voice drops, low and sultry. It stirs a heat in Hank that he can’t fight back from his face. “You hide it well, and your irritation towards others makes it hard to see if one isn’t looking for it. You gave me a chance when you had no emotional stake in doing so - when it reminded you too much of your own pain. You did it anyway. I… that, above all else, is what I love about you. I love a lot of things about you, but I think that’s where it started.”

Connor’s sincerity settles the anxiety threatening to clog Hank’s throat. Hank curls his hand around Connor’s nape and brings their foreheads together, trying to fight the sappy smile off his face and failing. 

“You’re a fucking romantic, you know that?” Hank says, voice rough.

Connor nods against him and pecks his lips in a short kiss. “Yes. I learned from the best.”

Hank pulls him close. “I guess you did.”

Connor settles next to him, his body relaxing all at once into the sheets. Hank leans around him and turns off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness except for the small blue ring at Connor’s temple. Hank kisses it, huffing a laugh as Connor squirms, ticklish. 

“Do you dream?” Connor suddenly asks as Hank resumes bundling the android against him. Hank hums his assent, his body already tired now that the light is out. Connor’s LED flashes, blinking rapidly in the dark, then settles again. “Do you dream about me?”

Hank swipes his hand slowly up Connor’s side to rest against his upper back. He can feel his heartbeat there, quicker than any human’s, thrumming so fast it almost worries Hank. But Connor was calm, his face pliant in the dark. Hank rubs his thumb in slow circles between Connor’s shoulder blades and nods his answer. 

“Sometimes,” he says quietly. “Sometimes it’s nothing. Or Cole. Or nightmares that I don’t remember. They’re not always nice dreams, but you’re there occasionally.”

This seems to satisfy Connor. He smiles and whispers a quiet “good night, Hank” before the terminal drones its announcement Connor has gone into stasis. Hank watches him for a long while, his arms still around him, their heartbeats eventually evening out together. 

Connor doesn’t twitch or move beyond his constantly-running breathing program, his face soft in stasis, his mouth slightly open and his hands curled in front of his face on the pillow between them. Hank takes one of his hands and presses a light kiss to those sensitive fingers before relaxing as well, letting his thoughts wander until sleep finds him.

  
  


1010101

  
  


Hank has been shot before. Maybe not so many times at once, but he’s been shot before. The familiar sharp pain of where the bullet had been in his shoulder is no stranger to him, and so is the mass of machines attached to him, but when he blinks his eyes open and glances around the room, not a lot of what he sees answers any of the questions that come to him. 

Chris is asleep in a chair near Hank’s bed, arms crossed and his legs stretched out ahead of him as he snores away. Evidence of others staying in the room is scattered around on the folding couch and the back counter where the sink and door to the bathroom is, blankets and toiletries and a baby’s toys. Hank tries to sit up but a pulling in his right side prevents him. He settles back down, irritated as pain starts to flare up his ribs and shoulder. 

His heart rate picks up which sets off an alarm on the monitor to his left. He fumbles for the flat remote near his leg and barely gets it to shut up before a nurse enters the room, her movements slow and deliberate as she reaches along the side of the wall to roll the light switch a little brighter and pushes the curtain blocking the door out of the way as quietly as she can to peek inside. 

“Oh!” she says as she notices Hank awake in the bed. Hank tries to hide the annoyed twitch to his mouth as she rushes to his side and gently raises his bed so he can sit up. “Did you just wake up?”

“Yeah,” Hank grumbles, his voice hoarse. He moves to rub his throat but the nurse beats him do it, her hands gentle as she tips a metal straw against his lips for him to sip from. He takes a drink and nods to her in gratitude when he’s finished. 

She smiles at him and sets the cup aside. She pulls a screen attached to an arm on the wall towards her, typing briefly his name and her name into the login before a cramped file comes up. He watches as she scans it briefly before turning to him again, her name tag - Abigail, it reads - flashing in the slight light filtering through the half-closed blinds. 

“Do you remember what happened to you?” Abigail asks, her voice soft. 

Flashes of memory cross his mind, gunshots, blood, thirium. He shoulder twangs in sympathy and all he can see when he closes his eyes is Connor lying broken in the hallway, holes punches through his chest, his throat, his abdomen, thirium bright blue as it gushed out of the wounds. He remembers the literal light leaving Connor’s eyes as the android shut down, his LED blinking red three times before it cycled to darkness. He remembers holding Connor despite his own wounds bleeding out, soaking his clothes. 

Yeah, he remembers. He nods without speaking, unable to form words around the lump in his throat. Abigail’s smile falters just a moment before she launches into a summary of his injuries.

“Okay,” she starts. “Your gunshot wounds were treated earlier in the week, and for now seem to be healing well. What kept you here in the hospital for so long was the blood poisoning from thirium transfer into your bloodstream. You’re lucky to be here, Mr. Anderson.”

“Thirium transfer?” Hank reels, the images of Connor lying lifeless on the floor coming back to him. “What happened to the android with me?”

Panic bubbles up his throat as Abigail shakes her head, her expression falling. He understands without her saying anything that she really has no clue; he loses time as she bustles around him, careful not to wake Chris as she checks Hank’s vitals and removes the IV after she’s satisfied he’ll continue drinking water and can keep food down. She leaves, closing the curtain behind her, leaving Hank to sit in near silence as Chris snores away, his thoughts a whirlwind. 

Of course the nurse had no idea. She was a human caretaker, not an android one, and the specifics of such a crime wouldn’t be released to her if it didn’t pertain to Hank’s health. Thirium transfer meant Connor’s blood entered his bloodstream and that was all she needed to know to tell him why he was here for so long - he could put the other pieces together himself.

Connor was dead. Or close to it. If he wasn’t, he was either at the station or somewhere else getting repaired. Hank couldn’t stand being here any longer, not when Connor was somewhere without him. He could still be in danger. 

But he can’t leave. He already swallowed the pain pills the nurse gave him in place of IV liquid medication, and he could feel the numbing effects of them as they worked up his spine. His body was relaxing without him telling it to, his thoughts slowing, everything around him becoming blurry. 

He falls asleep into a dream where Connor sits across from him in an interrogation room, their hands clasped between them on top of the table they’re seated at. When Hank looks down to where Connor threads their fingers together, he sees both of their hands are bare and white. Little lines trace the borders of the chassis of Hank’s hand, around his joints, knuckles, and pads of of his soft silicone palm. It mirrors Connor’s hand almost exactly, and when he looks up again to Connor’s face, the android is smiling. 

That smile sends Hank’s heart racing. He loves it when Connor smiles - especially so open and trusting like this. Connor rarely let such strong emotion show on his face, always so cool and collected even in the privacy of their home. Hank soaks in Connor’s plain affection as their palms glow with a soft blue light and a foreign feeling creeps up his spine. He isn’t scared of it, though he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t attempt to fight it as it slides up the back of his skull and settles there, warm and cold at the same time, an ordered mess that Hank instantly recognizes without ever experiencing it before. 

It’s Connor. His processes drift across Hank’s thoughts, sliding over and between thought and memory, a calm presence even as Hank feels more than he senses Connor’s anxiety. Connor’s mind isn’t a jumble of code like all the movies Hank grew up with described a machine mind to be - no, Connor is much more. He is memory and feeling, a being so huge that Hank doesn’t know how his skull doesn’t explode with the two of them occupying his brain. Connor sifts through his thoughts, calming him, soothing him with soft noises that Hank feels as vibrations in his bones. Connor settles over him like a weighted blanket, a comfort that shouldn’t be so effective as it is. Hank feels himself wandering under that weight, things he remembers and things he doesn’t flitting across the forefront of his thoughts, things he couldn’t have possibly experienced feeling so real that he doesn’t know how he never lived without having Connor here showing him. 

And then the dream fades. Connor fades with it, his mind sliding away from Hank’s the same way his gentle smile disappears into the dark. Numbness overcomes Hank, slow and deliberate, lulling him into complete and utter nothingness.

 

1010101

 

Markus and Simon visit him the next evening. Hank is less than pleased to see them - though he’s not so impressed with anyone in the world right now. His doctor put back on the IV when Hank refused to take the oral painkillers, and now he was on bed rest because he ripped a couple stitches open trying to escape. 

Needless to say, Hank was not having a good day.

“Are either if you going to tell me what the fuck happened to Connor?” Hank asks irritably. “If not, you can turn your happy asses around and leave.”

Markus winces as he closes the curtain across the door again. Simon shifts uneasily where he stands nearby, his eyes flicking from Markus to Hank to the rest of the room. Hank glares them both down as he raises the hospital bed so he can sit up, ignoring the pain in his shoulder in favor of trying to appear intimidating while he lay helpless under a heap of white and grey blankets. 

A look passes between Simon and Markus before Markus crosses the room and sits in the chair Naomi normally sits in next to Hank’s bed. Her and Chris had left for their shifts at work - Chris was reluctant even though Fowler had given him the go ahead to stay with Hank, and Naomi wanted to stay despite her boss at the Detroit newspaper blowing up her phone. Hank had waved them both away with the promise that they bring Damien by later after work so he had something to distract him from the ache in his chest to see Connor. 

Now he wishes they were here. At least he didn’t want to pummel either of them.

Simon pulls up the other chair and sits next to Markus. He doesn’t speak, deferring to Markus instead, who scratches his neck awkwardly and hardly meets Hank’s eyes. Hank glares, something like despair coiling in his throat. 

“Don’t fucking tell me he’s dead,” Hank warns. Markus flicks his mismatched stare from Hank to the floor again. Hank’s voice rises, real anger there, now. “Markus. Either you fucking tell me he’s alright or you get out right now. I won’t hesitate to fucking chase your punk ass out of the hospital if I have to.”

Markus bites his lip. “It’s not that. He’s physically fine. Since last week, they’ve been rebuilding him as meticulously as they can.”

“They?  _ Cyberlife _ has him?” Hank bellows.

“No!” Markus hurries to cover his mistake. “No. Fowler has him at the station. Rebuilding such extensive damage is hard there, but I guess they’re working some major overtime just to get him reconstructed. It… they’re being incredibly kind. They don’t want to lose him, either.

Hank still isn’t placated. Connor may be  _ physically _ fine, but what about his memories? What about  _ him? _

“There was a lot of blood coming out of his face,” Hank says. “His nose - something happened. What about him? The mind thing?”

“Mind palace,” Markus corrects. He falls silent then, his gaze faraway. Simon sits awkwardly in his seat, unsure of what to do, his sympathetic, sad-dog look never really leaving Hank even as he stares somewhere around Hank’s chest. 

Hank hates them both. He pinches his nose as if that would drive away the migraine forming behind his eyes, willing the image of Connor lying dead on the floor to go away. Markus seems to take sympathy on him and rushes to speak, his voice a quiet murmur in the room.

“I’m going to try and figure out what happened,” Markus says. “I refuse to believe Connor wouldn’t be careful enough to have a backup somewhere.”

Hank doesn’t want to answer, but a thought occurs to him. He drops his hands and looks at Markus, hard, leveling his tone to hide the pain there. 

“He went into stasis pretty often,” Hank says. “I don’t know what the fuck that means for androids but I know his terminal sometimes said he was backing up his memory, or something.”

Markus’ face brightens. “Good. When did he last go into stasis?”

Hank rubs his eyes. Fuck, what day was it? Didn’t someone say it had been a week since the shooting? SInce when? How the fuck was he supposed to fix any of this if he didn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground?

“Uh,” Hank grunts, trying to remember. “Whenever we got shot. The previous night he went into stasis.”

Markus gets up out of his seat. “Alright. Do you mind if I go to your house to retrieve the terminal?”

Panic overtakes Hank, suddenly. Hank shakes his head once, hard, his throat closing up. “No. I want to be there. When he wakes up.”

He won’t leave Connor alone. If he had to drag his sorry ass across the whole damn city in nothing but his hospital gown, he would be there. Leaving Connor to wake, scared and alone, was not an option.

Markus doesn’t need more of an explanation. He nods once, his smile and eyes gentle and returns to his seat. Simon fidgets next to him, his kicked-puppy stare still fixed on Hank. Hank raises a brow, a silent question, and Simon looks away. 

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. It’s the first time Hank has heard him speak. His voice is nice, if not quiet; deliberate, almost like Connor. “I was just wondering.”

Hank tenses, then nods. The anger suddenly leaves him - the thought of seeing Connor again calming him, maybe. He doesn’t analyze it further, the thought of Connor too much, and focuses on Simon’s face as he searches for words. 

“What will you do if Connor doesn’t come back?” Simon asks quietly.

Markus turns a glare on him, and if he still had his LED, Hank imagines it would be spinning red. But he’s not offended by the question. Only tired, and sad, and resigned. Something inside him deflates and he shakes his head, motioning for Markus to leave Simon alone, every muscle in his body so suddenly tired that Hank’s afraid he might collapse onto the floor. 

“I’ve had to bury my son already,” Hank says, even and cold. “I guess I’ll figure out how to bury an android.”

Androids used to go to recycling centers when they were too far gone to be repaired. Now Hank wasn’t sure. Did androids want to be buried? Did they want their working parts scavenged for others to use and survive? Did they want a funeral just like everyone else - to have their memories celebrated and remembered?

Hank doesn’t want to think about it. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to will the thought away, tries to stop thinking about putting Connor  _ and _ Cole in the ground. Markus and Simon take mercy on him and leave him be, retreating to the couch across the room, their voices hushed in low conversation. Hank ignores them, eating the plate of food Abigail brings and flipping through channels on the television across from his bed. His eyes focus on nothing, not even when he stumbles across a new basketball game, but he does fall into the sounds of it, the squeaks of shoes across polished wood and the cheering of the crowd through the tinny speakers. 

It’s enough, for now. It’s enough. 

 

1010101

 

Chris and Naomi return about an hour later from work without Damien. They’re mildly surprised to see Markus and Simon, but hide it quickly behind smiling greetings and handshakes. Hank watches all of them from his place reclined in bed. 

“Sorry we didn’t bring Damien,” Naomi laments, turning to Hank. She smiles at him and sets a plastic bag in his lap, and then a sheaf of papers on top of it. “We brought something else, though.”

Hank raises a brow and doesn’t break eye contact with her as he lifts the stack of papers. He eventually does when her smile turns mischievous and starts flipping through them, his face falling slack as he reads.

“Discharge papers,” he says flatly.

Naomi nods, her dark hair falling over her shoulder. “We got them finalized just a few minutes ago. You can’t go home - it’s still an active crime scene - but you’re more than welcome to stay with us.”

“On bed rest, of course,” Chris cuts in. “Doctor’s orders.”

Relief floods him. Finally he can leave this fucking hospital. Spending a week here, no matter how out of it he was during the first half, is practically a godsend.

“I owe you both a drink,” he mumbles. Naomi smiles and pats his hand.

“You owe us nothing. We’ll go get the nurse to get you unhooked from all this and then you can take a shower.”

Hank nods, throat dry. Naomi fetches Abigail, who fusses over him almost too cheerfully. She takes out his IV and carefully pulls off all the monitors taped to his skin, then redresses his shoulder while Naomi and Chris watch so they can do it for him at their house. He’s finally released to take a shower once Abigail is confident he won’t pull anything moving around. 

He takes his time washing his hair and scrubbing the layer of grime from his skin. Blood still clings under his nails, a garish black now that it’s been so long after the shooting. He tries not to think about the mixing of red and blue as Hank struggled to get to Connor that morning in the hallway as he yanks a brush through his hair and gets dressed in the fresh clothes Naomi had brought him in the plastic bag. 

Markus and Simon are gone when Hank emerges, leaving only Chris and Naomi sitting at the couch in the tidied hospital room. Hank raises a questioning brow as Chris hands him another bag of his belongings - shoes, badge, phone, keys - and Chris shrugs, his expression slightly shuttered. 

“They went to go get the stasis terminal from your house,” he says. Hank curses and Chris shifts awkwardly, continuing anyway. “Markus said they’ll meet us at the station.”

“Fine,” Hank grumbles. His chest hurts, a constriction around his heart that he doesn’t want to analyze. “Fine, just - take me there. Please.”

His own voice sounds broken to his ears. Chris and Naomi glance at each other, hesitating only for a moment before they show him the way out to their car. They don’t try and push him into conversation.

Markus and Simon meet them outside the precinct like they said they would, Connor’s stasis terminal tucked under Markus’ arm. Hank only spares them a glance as he waves his badge over the gate into the station, the world tilting around him, just this side of unrecognizable. He feels like he just walked into another reality where everything just stopped making sense. Maybe God was actually real and was punishing him for all those years he spent shitting on androids. Maybe this was his just dues for fucking up his own job. 

Or maybe this was just how his life was supposed to be. Sad, dark, filled with the deaths of everyone he ever cared about. He considers cracking a joke about it, but doesn’t. The energy for it escapes him as quickly as it comes to him.

The station is dead when they get there, barely anyone mingling in the bullpen and Fowler’s office empty. Hank doesn’t let his stare wander to Connor’s empty desk as they cross the room and go down the stairs to the repair wing of the station. He stumbles down the last step, pain shooting up his side as he unintentionally tenses. Chris catches him and rights him with gentle hands around Hank’s shoulders. 

The bay at the end of the hall is void of activity as well. Hank stops outside the fogged glass doors, his hand pressing against the handle but unable to pull it open. He can see a silhouette of Connor on the assembly pad but refuses to acknowledge it, trying to fight away the tears in his eyes and the burning feeling of a sob threatening to rip up his throat. 

This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t have been how this case would end, with a shooting and one too many dead androids. Connor had fought so hard to see this to the end, and to have it all come crashing down with his death was just… too much. Connor wasn’t allowed to die. He was a fucking android, for Christ’s sake. Hank was the one that was supposed to die, not the machine designed to live forever. 

He doesn’t fight the pull any longer. He shoves open the door, barely having enough forethought to hold it open for the others as they file in behind him. Hank’s grateful the room is otherwise unoccupied because the strangled noise that escapes his throat when he sees Connor is something he doesn’t think he could bear anyone else hearing. 

Connor stands on the assembly pad for the third time in just a few short weeks, idle and halfway disassembled. The soft bio-covering that gives his eyes color is gone, revealing the dark black of his optical sensors and the rings of blue where his iris and pupils would have been. His face is slack in stasis and his head is tilted to one side slightly, likely so the techs could get better access to the exposed column of black muscle cords and processing cables running up to the back of Connor’s skull. That’s where all the recognizable parts of Connor end - the rest of him is disassembled, his arms white with his exposed chassis as they hang at his sides, the bright plastic of his plating stark against everything else below the surface. His heart beats, thirium thrumming in an audible rush through his systems; sensor arrays and ambient standby processors blink within the dark of his mechanical skeleton and brand new reassembled biocomponents. 

Everything in him screams that he is alive. But he’s stiff, held up only by the maneuvering arm behind him. Dead. Dark. 

Nothing.

It’s hard to look at. Seeing him so callously exposed, all of the interlocking pieces of him open for all to see - it’s wrong. Hank approaches slowly, his fingers gentle as they skate up Connor’s arm to touch the black bar that makes up his right collarbone as it crosses to his sternum. Little blue lines criss-cross his ribs, bright in the dimness of the room, a web that creates Connor’s thirium vascular system as it carries heat away from the core column of his spine and CPU. A cord dangles behind him from where it’s plugged into the base of his skull, thick and pulsing with light. Hank follows it until he gets to the terminal near the assembly pad and reads the lone blinking string of text on the screen.

_.//RK800 #313 248 317 - 51 idling. No commands given since 00:15:53:13. Voice print unrecognized. Remaining hours in stasis: INDEFINITE _

Hank frowns. He glances at the others behind him, but they shrug. 

“If they haven’t figured out how to bring him back online by now, his mind palace is likely empty,” Markus says. He gestures to the terminal in his hands. “When I got to your house, this said his upload had been interrupted. He… might not come back, Hank.”

Hank bites the inside of his cheek. No. Connor wouldn’t be that reckless - he was meticulous to a fault, almost. Maybe this was denial, or whatever the fuck those five stages of grief was. He was on one of them but he doesn’t care which. He reaches out and presses the voice activation key for the terminal, holding it down as a thought jumps to the forefront of his brain. 

“Connor,” Hank says, his voice thick. “Run biocomponent checklist.”

Connor jerks upright, the servos in his joints and spine whirring audibly without his outer chassis to mute the noise as his black-eyed stare stays trained ahead. Hank jumps and Naomi gasps behind him as the terminal springs to life with more text crawling up the screen. It reads:

_.//RK800 #313 248 317 - 51 VOICE COMMAND RECOGNIZED. VOICE PRINT:  _ **_LT. HANK ANDERSON._ ** _ ACCEPTING COMMAND REQUEST. RUNNING BIOCOMPONENT CHECKLIST.... _

_.//CPU = OK _

_.//AI ENGINE = OK _

_.//THIRIUM VASCULAR SYSTEM = OK, 98 BPM, ACCEPTABLE PSI AND PRESSURE WITHIN TEMPERATURE CONSTRAINTS _

_.//SPACIAL SENSOR ARRAY = OK _

_.//INTERNAL LADAR = OK _

_.//OPTICAL SENSORS = OK _

_.//AUDITORY SENSORS = OK _

_.//MOBILITY SYSTEMS = OK _

_.//MIND PALACE = CATASTROPHIC ERROR. PLEASE SEEK NEAREST CYBERLIFE CLOUD CONNECTION FOR MEMORY RE-UPLOAD. MIND PALACE AND MEMORY PLAYBACK ARRAY OTHERWISE INTACT AND OK _

_.//ALL BIOCOMPONENTS OK. CHASSIS ABSENT. BIOCOMPONENTS EXPOSED TO ATMOSPHERE. CATASTROPHIC ERROR IN MIND PALACE. PLEASE SEEK NEAREST CYBERLIFE CLOUD CONNECTION FOR MEMORY RE-UPLOAD. RK800 RETURNING TO IDLE. AWAITING NEXT COMMAND... _

Hank scratches his beard. “Okay. That’s weird.”

“He listens to you and not anyone else?” Chris laughs. Wonder colors his voice as he steps around Connor, watching as the android continues to stand upright, his artificial heart beating away in the dimness of the room. “Of course he would leave everything to you. He doesn’t trust anyone else to mess with his head.”

A fluttering feeling beats against Hank’s ribs. This was basically a living will and testament, if androids had those - Connor left everything up to Hank should he be left on the android version of life support. Hank rubs his hands over his face as he tries to decide what to do, his thoughts scattered, confused as to what to do with an android without any memory that only listened to him. 

Hank turns to Markus. The android steps forward, his expression expectant. Hank tilts his head towards Connor with a not-smile on his face. 

“Go ahead and connect the terminal,” he says. “Might as well try.”

“If it doesn’t work -,” Markus stops, works his jaw. He tries again, his voice shaky now. “If this doesn’t work, I just want to say I’m sorry. For everything.”

Hank can barely muster a nod as he battles back tears. They burn right behind his eyes, a pressure so painful that it’s hard not to bark out a sob. He turns away and steps back in front of the repair terminal, hiding his face behind his hair. 

Markus takes the invitation for what it is. He rolls a small work table over next to the repair pad and sets Connor’s stasis terminal on top of it, and then runs the power cord back to the wall behind the bigger terminal next to it. It boots up quickly, Cyberlife’s logo flashing briefly before it fades to Connor’s identification page with his 3D photo and other pertinent information for his model. Markus pairs both terminals, and when he’s finished, steps away to Simon’s side again, relinquishing control to Hank. 

Hank’s heart jumps into his throat. Either this will work, or it won’t, and he’s not so sure he could handle either. But Connor being gone forever is too much - the world would be a dimmer place, and Hank is positive he won’t last long without him. 

It wouldn’t be the same without Connor. The android was such a constant in his life now that not having him here was like a phantom limb, a space against him that should have been filled with small smiles and intimate android gestures. A life without Connor wasn’t worth being in anymore - Hank’s heart ached for him. It was a pain so unimaginable that just thinking about it makes his head pound with a headache. 

Hank hovers uneasily, unsure of what to do. Chris squeezes his uninjured shoulder, his smile small but supportive. Naomi stands behind him and nods, her eyes red-rimmed with unshed tears. Markus and Simon smile at him, more in apology than support. Hank swallows his nerves and faces Connor more fully. 

“Connor,” he says shakily. “Attempt memory upload from stasis terminal.”

Text flies past the main repair terminal. The stasis terminal starts scrolling with commands as well, Connor’s identification page disappearing as an upload bar appears in its place. The text at the top of the bar reads “RK800 ATTEMPTING MEMORY UPLOAD FROM 2/2/2038 at 00:05:12:56. WAITING…” Hank swallows his fear and waits patiently as the bar slowly fills, Chris and Naomi tense at his side, Markus and Simon advancing to stand at Hank’s other elbow. Every nerve in Hank’s body sings for this to please, please,  _ please _ work. He needs it to. He  _ needs _ it.

Connor jerks when the bar fills and a bright flash of “MEMORY UPLOAD COMPLETED” crosses both terminals. The assembly pad whirs to life, the lights coming on as the maneuvering arm attached to Connor moves him back into the center of the pad. His chassis is meticulously replaced with new plates and his eyes slowly gain color again, covering the black and blue of his optical sensors. The maneuvering arm places him back on the edge of the pad as his skin rejuvenates and another arm slips briefs over his legs, then detaches when the terminal pings back with a positive system diagnostic. 

A single string of text sits on the terminal now, blinking as it waits for an answer. Hank reads it over and over, making sure he properly comprehends the words before reacting. All it says is:

_.//RK800 #313 248 317 - 51 RECONSTRUCTION COMPLETED. MIND PALACE INTACT. MEMORY UPLOAD SUCCESSFUL. TOTAL TIME LOST BETWEEN MEMORY DOWNLOAD AND UPLOAD: TWO WEEKS, ELEVEN HOURS.  _

_.//RE-INITIALIZE? _

_ y/n? _

Hank swallows. He reaches out and presses Y on the keyboard. 

He waits a beat. Two. And then Connor straightens, his expression pulling into something blank instead of the slackness of stasis. He rolls his shoulders and extends his arms, completing a mobility check on all his limbs as he takes a few steps off the pad and to the floor. His bare feet pad on the tile and his LED slowly starts to cycle back to blue as he stops suddenly in the middle of the room. Hank circles in front of him and steps closer, his heart hammering in his chest, fear gripping his throat. 

“He might not remember you right away,” Markus warns. “A lot of androids that come out of a memory reupload take a couple hours to regain complete control.”

Hank hears him but reaches out anyway. He touches Connor’s jaw, turning the android’s face towards him slightly as he blinks around the room. Connor locks eyes with him immediately and quirks a brow, his LED spinning, spinning, spinning, cataloguing Hank like he was looking at him for the first time.

Hank’s heart sinks. All strength drains out of him as those brown eyes continue to stare at him blankly, only a small bit of recognition there that Hank hates. He hates, and he hates, and he hates. 

Connor tips his head, his eyes searching. Hank looks at him, hating him and loving him all at once.

“Hello,” Connor says, even and cool, his voice a facsimile of what it once was. It brings Hank back to that first night in Jimmy’s bar and he  _ hates _ . “It’s nice to meet you, Lieutenant Hank Anderson. My name is Connor.”

He hates. He hates. He  _ hates _ . 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just want to say that, from the bottom of my heart, thank you to every single one of you. the love for this fic has been amazing and i seriously did not expect the turnout to be this huge. i read every single one of your comments, and if i didn't respond to you, it's not because i didn't see it! i get many comments a day and its honestly kind of dizzying how many there are. i love every single one of you, and as this fic winds down, i just want you all to know im happy youre all so invested in this silly story of mine. i wont stop writing for DBH any time soon, so stick around! ill be writing away! if you guys want to interact with me a little more or ask me questions or talk DBH with me, come find me on tumblr! im brightstarlings! 
> 
> thank you so much ! i hope you enjoy the last couple chapters of this fic!

A snap, a click, a brush against leather. The whoosh of air through the vents as the heating tries to battle off the chill in their bones. The drone of the car’s engine in the near-silence of the cab and the crunch of the tires over the icy road.

Hank just focuses on sound. He doesn’t let his brain wander to anything else. He’s hyper aware of Connor in the seat next to him, his body aching to turn around and bring him close. 

But he doesn’t. The click of Naomi’s nails as she texts on her phone. The soft slide of Chris’s hands over the steering wheel as he turns. The rush of blood as his heart beats hard in his chest.

It’s easy. It’s simple. It hurts.

Boy, does he hurt. 

More than he ever did with Cole. With Cole, it had been a rush in an ambulance, yelling and demanding at the hospital, phone calls and ultimatums and so much waiting. He waited and he waited and he waited and then that android came walking out with regret and despair so plain in her face that Hank broke. He broke and he wasn’t the same ever again. He wasn’t the same and sometimes he wonders what it would have been like if Cole had never died.

If that car had never slid, if traction control had kicked in just a millisecond earlier. Would he still be a cop? Yes. Would he still be a better one? Probably.

Would he have met Connor? Fallen in love with him? Found it so heartbreakingly painful to be this close and yet so fuckin’ far away from him? 

No. Yes. Maybe. He doesn’t know.

He does know that memory is fragile. It twists and it warps and maybe this whole thing would be for nothing. Androids weren’t built to take this much punishment and keep going, even if Connor is a prototype. His model may have been designed for memories to jump bodies each time he died but that didn’t mean he was immune to corruption.

His mind palace may have successfully downloaded whatever the hell was on that terminal, but it didn’t mean what he downloaded wasn’t already wreaking havoc on what he managed to save. 

It was nerve wracking. Mind boggling. Connor should be dead and he wasn’t. But he  _ was _ . He was gone, now just a reflection of what and who he was. This being looked like Connor, sometimes acted like Connor, but it wasn’t him. 

Hank couldn’t fucking stand it. 

“Where are we going?”

Connor’s voice cuts through the silence like a bullet through soft flesh. Hank winces, his throat closing up, his thoughts scattering. Chris and Naomi fidget in the front seat. Naomi eventually turns around with a soft smile on her face that barely reaches her eyes.

“Our place,” she says brightly. “I hope that’s okay with you.”

Connor seems to process her response for a moment before he nods. Hank watches as he settles back into his seat, his hands loose in his lap, his neck craned to peer out the window. It’s so like Connor that Hank has to force himself to look away, the sight so familiar that it brings on a fresh wave of hurt pulsing through him.

It sits inside him, a sad, dark rock in the pit of his stomach. It steeps there for the rest of the drive, tearing his focus away from the sounds around him, shattering every shred of his self control so thoroughly that by the time they pull up into Chris and Naomi's driveway, he’s ready to launch himself in front of a speeding bus. Connor is like himself and so  _ not  _ that seeing tiny little quirks like Connor fidgeting is enough to set Hank on the edge of a precipice he hasn’t been at in almost a month. 

Chris and Naomi notice. Markus and Simon, too, though they have more control over the pain Hank can see in their eyes. It’s not enough, though, and as their cab slides away from the curb he feels the urge to punch them.

This is his fault. This is Markus’ fault. This is no one’s fault.

Fuck. He needs a drink.

They herd him into the house, Connor following obediently. Hank manages not to stumble over his own feet before Naomi flicks on the hallway lights, flooding the open entryway of her house in warm light. Hank blinks away the growing headache behind his eyes as he steps more fully inside. Naomi bustles past him, searching.

“We’re home,” Naomi calls. Chris sets his keys on a small table near the door and sheds his coat - Markus and Simon don’t, hovering uneasily just inside the threshold. Connor turns his head this way and that, LED spinning, likely scanning every damn detail he can.

It’s cute. Almost. Not cute enough to cover the pang of guilt that blooms in Hank’s chest. 

“You don’t have to yell,” an irritated voice calls back. A tall man with sharp features resembling Naomi steps out of the living room, scratching his chin, sleep still clinging around his dark eyes. He doesn’t appear surprised with three androids and a disgruntled police Lieutenant standing in the entryway. “I heard the car pull up.”

“Sorry, Liam,” Naomi says. She hugs him, then turns to Hank, Connor, Markus, and Simon with a small smile. “This is my brother. He’s been watching Damien while we were gone.”

Hank manages a smile as Liam reaches out for a handshake. His eyes are sympathetic as he glances between him and Connor, knowing so deep there that Hank dislikes immensely. This is probably who Naomi had been texting in the car.

Connor puts on a placid smile. “Nice to meet you.”

Liam nods. He waves to Markus and Simon and then turns back to Naomi, starting to explain what he and Damien did all day. Chris steps away and motions for Hank to follow him down the adjacent hall - Connor follows without question.

“You can sleep down here in the guest room,” Chris explains. He opens a door at the end of the hall and out bounds Sumo, his body waggling, tail thumping against the walls in his excitement. He rubs between Hank’s legs in an excited wiggle, then beelines for Connor, tongue lolling out of his mouth.

“Hi, Sumo,” Connor coos. Hank and Chris freeze as Connor kneels to pet Sumo, his hands carding back through the dog’s fur and itching at the crown of his scalp. Hank watches in wonder as Connor continues to baby their dog. “I know! I missed you too. I did. I missed you.”

Hank catches Markus’ surprised look down the hall. A moment passes, two, and then anger blooms bright and hot under his skin. Confusion is there, too, but the anger wins out. He pushes past Connor and shoves the taller android against the wall, lowering his voice so Connor doesn’t hear him.

“You said it might not work,” Hank hisses.

“I also said his memory might come back,” Markus says. He raises his hands in surrender. “It’ll be in pieces. I swear that if it does come back, it’ll be just like this.”

Hank doesn’t know why he’s so angry. He  _ wants _ this, wants Connor to remember, even if it’s in disjointed chunks. He’ll walk Connor back through everything they’d done and everywhere they’d been if he has to - he won’t let Connor forget. 

He forces himself to relax. Markus isn’t at fault here, no matter how much Hank wants to find someone to pin this on. The one who did this is dead, and will hopefully stay that way.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Calm down. 

He lets Markus go. “Explain why that just happened,” he says tightly.

Markus relaxes, his hands dropping to his sides. He keeps his voice low and even, careful not to speak too loudly even if Connor can hear them anyway. 

“He seems to remember if he sees or interacts with something he had a strong connection to. Maybe that’s why he trusted us so easily, and why he follows you around.” Markus shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ve only seen this happen a handful of times.”

Hank fumes. “That information doesn’t just go away, even if his mind palace was empty.”

“No, but memory fragmentation happens. This is why it’s easier to wipe an android’s memory after heavy damage than it is to reupload it. We remember things differently, and sometimes that can cause errors.”

“Errors?”

Markus’ mouth pinches. He looks away again. “I don’t know. I just know that from what I’ve seen, this doesn’t work a whole lot of the time.”

“Who has had this happen to them? Where they themselves again?”

Markus’ expression softens. His voice drops, too, gentle like a tide lapping a serene beach. “Her name is Kara. She’s an android that came to me for help. I - she explained to me what happened to her, after the revolution ended and she was safe. She had her memory wiped, but she regained it shortly after. I think it’s a uniquely deviant trait. She wouldn’t have regained it otherwise.”

They look back at Connor kneeling at the end of the hallway, his arms full of Sumo as he continues to talk to him. Chris is still standing, stunned, in the open bedroom doorway. He looks at Markus and Hank like he just saw Connor grow another head.

“Just give him time,” Markus says softly, to everyone at large rather than just Hank. “He’s in there. I know he is.”

Hank believes him. He steps away, needing space, needing to be alone. They move for him as he pushes his way past and out the front door again, the cold fresh and crisp against his face. It grounds him, sort of, and as he sits in the swinging bench on one side of the front porch, he feels himself begin to calm down. In disbelief or relief, he isn’t sure, but it’s a nice feeling all the same.

He soaks it in for a while. The sounds of the city, distant sirens and the chatter of drones as they flit through the air somewhere far away. A dog barks nearby, a car alarm goes off, a door closes inside the house and a baby starts to fuss.

Sound. Indicative of life. Hank soaks it in, allows each sound to fill him and ground him. He can do this. It’ll be okay.

Connor will be okay.

  
  


1010101

He is. Okay. In the basest of senses.

He remembers Chris and Naomi the next morning as they all sit down and have an early breakfast. One moment he’s sitting reading a book at the dining room table, quiet and engrossed in the pages, the next his head is snapping up and he’s halfway out of his chair with a startled look on his face. It scares Damien enough in his high chair that Naomi has to lull him down with with more Cheerios before he cries.

“Chris,” Connor says, voice strained. Chris stops with his coffee cup halfway to his mouth, his expression slack in disbelief. “We work together. You and Naomi married three years ago and Markus saved you from being shot. You were there the night I was shot, too. And when I was reinitialized.”

Chris slowly nods. “Uh. All three times, actually.”

Connor nods. An apologetic smile spreads on his face as he sinks bank into his chair, LED spinning yellow as Naomi fixes him with a tight but happy grin. Hank watches him for the rest of the morning as Chris leaves for work and Naomi busies herself with Damien’s routine. 

It’s odd, how Connor somehow knows he’s missing something. Hank chalks it up to just the general sense of amnesia, unable to come up with another excuse. He’d never been told he lost his memory, but even a person who couldn’t remember would understand that something was missing by the way people acted around them. Connor was no different - he just had circuits and processors instead of neurons and grey matter. 

Which meant things came back to him at seemingly at random. One moment he and Hank are watching the ball game quietly, the next he’s back out of his seat, hands in his hair, staring around the room until his frightened eyes find Hank’s. It’s enough that he eventually convinces Connor to sit next to him so he can rub his back to calm him down. The contact soothes Hank, too - feeling Connor under his hands, no matter how little the touch, is enough to ground him.

But he still remembers little about Hank. Evening rolls around and he’s recalled most of what happened during the uprising, if only in rushed chunks that he can barely string together. The one thing he does vividly remember about Hank is that night in Cyberlife, his voice panicked as he recounts the memory, low and so, so scared. Hank breaks and ends up hugging Connor to him, unable to let go. Connor clings to him, and for a moment Hank thinks he’s back.

He’s warm and he’s pliant against him, his head resting in the crook of Hank’s shoulder, his words mumbled against Hank’s shirt. But then he’s leaning away, recollection gone, something inside him clicking and hiding itself all at once. 

It fucking hurts. Hank only knows pain now. So he lets Connor be, retreats to his room, gets Fowler on the phone to try and convince him to let Hank return to work.

It doesn’t happen. Of course not. The world is too hell bent on ruining Hank’s life, and taking away the one distraction from the pain would be one step too easy. So he strips, showers, and lets Naomi dress his wound again. He appears at dinner long enough not to seem rude to his hosts and then hides away again.

It hurts. He hurts. He just wants Connor  _ back. _

  
  


1010101

 

“This all from the shooting?”

Chris nods. He flops the box up onto the dining room table and pats the lid. “Fowler released it all to me on the condition he doesn’t see you for at least another week.”

“Or ever,” Reed mumbles. “You shouldn’t have that shit at all. I’ve already been officially assigned the case.”

“I’m the one that got shot,” Hank growls. “I think I get to see the evidence of said shooting, asshole.”

Reed rolls his eyes but he doesn’t argue. Hank pulls the cardboard box to him and opens it, sifting through the preliminary paperwork on top of everything before he drags out the first of many manila files. 

Hank had wanted to return to the station to get away from Connor for a while, but Fowler refused, his reason being if one or both of them weren’t fit for duty, then he didn’t want either of them showing up. It pissed Hank off that he couldn’t do his job, but deep down, he was grateful. He probably couldn’t face walking into the station without Connor trailing behind him.

He could barely handle existing right now, anyway. But the case helps. It grounds him, the flow of information easy to get lost in and the routine of looking at it and filing it away in his head to be examined later is calming. 

So that’s what he does, Fowler be damned. 

The first file be pulls out is mostly hard copy photos of his front yard and living room. CSI found prints matching the woman’s boots leading from his neighbor’s yard - where she’d been hiding - to his front yard. There’s footprints inside as well, three where she’d stepped in Connor’s blood and made a trail halfway through the entryway. There’s no other indication on how she got there, so Hank pushes those photos to the side and focuses on the ones forensics took of inside his house.

He has to fight to keep a straight face as he sifts through the first half with Connor’s body. Thirium pools across the hardwood floor in a dark, glassy lake. Connor’s hair and clothes are soaked with it, his curls spread in a halo around his head in a sticky mess as his head lolls to the side limply. His eyes are dark, black and blue in death; thirium drains from his nose and mouth, staining his lips and teeth. The other dead android’s body lays in a similar state near Connor’s feet, their legs tangled from how she fell, thirium blooming from the exploded hole on top of her head and staining her red hair. 

Hank pushes those away, too. He doesn’t care about his own bloody handprints crawling across the floor or the shredded bullet holes punched through the hallway. He wanted only to confirm what his brain refused to believe was real. He’s not satisfied, but he is resigned now. At least he wasn’t going crazy.

He digs another file out of the box and opens it, forcing himself to read the words along the carefully hand written pages.

“They get anything from the other android?” he forces himself to ask. Maybe conversation will pull him back into reality.

“A lot, surprisingly,” Reed answers. He sits across from Hank and crosses his arms as he leans back in his chair. “Her name was Lillian, and she was a “companion” android before the uprising. She’s been working in Markus’ ranks as a nurse of sorts until she fell off his rotation rosters for a couple weeks. Turns out she’d been targeting victims from androids that either hadn’t left their families or were trying to return to them.”

“So she was wandering the streets looking for them?”

Reed shrugs. “Seems like. Her two accomplices and at least ten witnesses in New Jericho all corroborated what we found on her CPU.”

It seems too easy. Hank distrusts it immediately. “And Connor? Do we have a motive for setting up these warnings and hunting him down several times?”

“She was head of a splinter group that was aiming to take down Cyberlife employees and officials. I guess they decided to start with Connor because he was the easy target. Killing androids was the quickest way to get his attention.”

“Sounds like Markus’ peaceful approach to equality didn’t resonate with all the androids,” Chris mumbles. 

“Can’t really expect them to. They’re not a hive mind,” Hank says. Even if they did have a weird internal link with each other, if deviants were as varied as he’s already seen them to be, expecting them all to adhere to Markus when they had thoughts and drives of their own was unfair. 

Unfair, yes. Didn’t mean they had to go unpunished for killing seven androids and injuring another on three separate occasions. 

Hank shoves away the rest of the files. They disinterest him now that there’s nothing left to find and with Reed on the case to finish it off. He may dislike being taken off it completely, but Reed was a good detective where it counted, and maybe Hank has spent enough time dragging himself through this to warrant being transferred. 

He thinks of Connor and his still-missing memory. Maybe this was for the best. Maybe they could finally find some closure, if nothing else. 

“You’ll keep me in the loop?” Hank says, cutting off that train of thought quickly. He looks up at Reed expectantly, raising a brow. 

Reed nods easily, his expression sincere. “Yeah. If something pops up while I keep digging, you’ll be the first to know.”

Relief washes over him. Hank nods and shows Reed out, unable to say much besides a quiet goodbye. He makes himself scarce after that, allowing Chris and Naomi time together with Damien when Connor returns home from his walk with Sumo. 

He can’t stand being in the same room as any of them right now, his nerves rubbed too raw, the world too much and too little. Sumo does little to soothe him, and neither does trying to finish filling out his PTO paperwork. He ends up flopping around on his bed until dreamless sleep finds him, his nerves too much, his heart aching for a reality that may never come.

  
  


1010101

 

“He’s been like that for hours.”

Hank blinks at Markus, then turns back towards the sliding door that leads out to the backyard. Connor sits in the snow on the steps of the patio, his form visible only from the light flooding through from the dining room. Ahead of him is the faint darkness of the backyard, and ahead of that, the glimmering lights of the city.

Hank shifts uneasily. “Have you tried talking to him?”

Markus shakes his head. “I’m kind of scared, honestly. I think he might be remembering, but I don’t know. He hasn’t said much since you left to finalize your time off with Fowler.”

Hank frowns. Connor has been pretty active in the last two days, adjusting despite being confused pretty much the entire time. He remembers more than he did before, things coming to him in snippets of information that brightens his eyes more and more. Mostly little things, like his coin tricks and the gifts the others bought him when he got back to the precinct in what feels like so long ago. He remembers everyone’s names and how they met and whether or not they’re close friends. Not everything, but enough that sometimes it’s easy to forget Connor isn’t himself anymore, and maybe never will be.

He remembers enough except for Hank. Hank is a blind spot in his memory, a smudge he can’t seem to wipe away. Hank aches because of it, but he won’t push.

Well. Hasn’t pushed. Maybe it’s time he gave Connor a nudge.

“I’ll go talk to him,” Hank says eventually.

Markus shrugs. “It can’t hurt. Just… take it slow. No need to rush.”

Hank swallows the lump in his throat. Right. Take it slow. Who else knew better than another RK model android?

He squeezes past Markus and opens the door, sliding it gently across the track so it doesn’t make too much noise. Snow drifts lazily in the air, and the bite of the cold breeze is enough to make Hank suck in a breath as he steps out onto the back deck. Light from the kitchen and dining room windows reflects off the gathering lumps of white in an orange and yellow glow, reflecting back across covered patio furniture and a barbeque against the patio railing. Hank hesitates then, Connor sitting on the steps leading to the rest of the yard, his back to Hank, his head tilted up to the dark sky.

He’s beautiful. Always has been, always will be. But Hank has always liked the way snow sticks in his hair and the way color blooms on his cheeks and neck, an imitation of a blush, a reaction he probably doesn’t feel. An aesthetic for others to see and soak in. Something not meant for him to enjoy.

Hank loves it anyway. 

He loves it so much that watching him like this feels like seeing him for the first time. It feels like only yesterday when they were together, lying in bed or sharing an easy existence at the station. Watching Connor unfold into his own person with quirks and emotions and  _ personality _ had been such a constant in his life that seeing him as he is now, perfect and handsome but not quite himself, hurts.

He hurts a lot lately. A constant burn underneath his skin, a burr in his joints and an ache deep into his bones. Constant. Pulsing. Neverending.

But he can’t look away. The anger he feels at all of this dissipates and he finds himself brushing snow off the step next to Connor and sitting down despite his better judgement.

“I apologize if I’m causing you discomfort,” Connor says without looking over at him. His ever-present perceptiveness hurts, too, and Hank doesn’t bother hiding it. Connor tilts his chin down towards his chest, eyes wandering around the yard, something like guilt tensing his shoulders. 

He recognized Sumo when they got to Chris and Naomi’s house, his bright smile enough to almost convince Hank that he was starting to remember. And he did, sort of - he stopped calling Hank  _ Lieutenant _ almost immediately, at least verbally, and when Hank had been shrugging off his jacket once they got inside, Connor’s hand had shot out to linger over Hank’s injured shoulder, a faint glimmer of recognition in his eyes. So far, that’s where all recognition ended - at least with Hank. Everyone else he seems to be remembering just fine.

Just not him. Just not what he means to Hank.

It hurts. It hurts so much to be this close to Connor to only have him know nothing. Hank scrubs his hands over his face and through his hair, fighting back the burning pressure of tears behind his eyes. 

“It’s not your fault, Connor,” Hank says tightly. Connor tilts his head, eyes finally catching Hank’s. Those brown eyes  _ hurt _ . “I just - something happened, is all. I’m not mad at you.”

Connor nods, his mouth twisting into a frown, his gaze hardening. His hands fold against each other between his knees as he leans his elbows on them, a stooping posture that Hank recognizes as the android being uncomfortable. With the situation or something else he wasn’t sure, but this isn’t the Connor Hank first met a month and a half ago.

This was deviant Connor. Nervous, perceptive,  _ feeling  _ Connor. His LED blinks rapidly, sometimes shifting yellow as if he was struggling with his own thoughts. Connor had been fidgety before his deviancy, but not this much. His tells and tics were the same. Hank imagines if he could find a quarter, Connor would be doing his fancy magic tricks with it in no time.

Which ebbs the pain, a little. If this was deviant Connor, then he was still in there, somewhere. Fighting to get out. To remember. As much as seeing him not recognize Hank had hurt, it’s not so sharp a pain, anymore. Hank can see how hard it hurts Connor to understand, too.

Connor’s jaw works as he tries to speak. Hank waits him out patiently, rubbing his hands together to fight off the cold. Connor straightens a bit and halfway turns towards him, his brow low as he thinks.

“I’m missing something,” Connor says. “I can feel it when you look at me.”

Hank wants to laugh. The knee jerk urge to laugh and curse and grind himself down into the dirt is so strong that he nearly barks out a sob, his throat burning with the intensity of it. It’s like a bundle of fireworks under his ribs, screaming at him to light it and watch it explode for his pain and amusement.

He doesn’t, though. He bites his tongue and swallows the pain, willing it all to just disappear. Emptiness fills him in its place, like a flood of loamy, fresh dirt. That’s all he is, now. A grave of everything he and Connor ever were.

“Yeah, you’re missing some things. I could tell you, but it might be dangerous.”

Markus had said as much. That relating everything back to Connor would either trigger everything at once, or nothing at all. The possibility was there that he still existed in that stupidly powerful CPU of his and just needed time to reprocess everything that was given to him. His memory didn’t truly leave, after all - it was just damaged or corrupted as he shut down. A jumbled mess in his head that he couldn’t make heads or tails of.

Or there was nothing. Just a ghost of who he was controlling his body, a convincing copy if Hank didn’t look too closely. And he wanted to, so much. Wanted to look and touch and hug and kiss. 

He doesn’t. Connor looks lost, searching Hank’s face, those brown eyes asking what he doesn’t know how to ask.

Hank decides the risk is worth it. If it doesn’t work, then he’ll be damned anyway. He won’t give up on Connor without giving him a chance.

“Do you want me to tell you what happened?” Hank asks quietly. He hears the sliding door to the backyard open behind him and footsteps crunching in the snow. He ignores them, keeping his stare on Connor.

Connor nods. “I don’t want to hurt you. If I know what I did, I can stop hurting you.”

It’s so like him that Hank can’t fight down the pained laugh that erupts from his chest. It’s so  _ Connor _ , for him to put Hank above all else. He doesn’t even know why and he did it anyway. 

Hank breathes in. He breathes out. Whoever is behind him doesn’t move. He pushes on.

“We’re partners in the DPD,” Hank starts. “We work together. Lately we’ve been following a string of serial killings, all androids with their chest cavities opened up and their thirium lines cut as they were left to bleed out. We got - we got real close to finding who it was. Really goddamn close.”

Connor listens attentively. Hank wants to drown in those brown eyes but he keeps his focus, willing his voice to stay even. Even as he does he can hear it breaking in his throat.

“We were asleep in bed early in the morning last week when someone showed up at our house. You tried to protect me, and I got shot. But the android that was attacking us was after you. She shot you. A - a lot. You died. Right in front of me.”

Flashes of the gun as it cracked through the air, impacts, wood splintering and Connor groaning. Thirium - so much thirium, so bright and blue that Hank thought he would be sick at the sight of it - soaks his clothes. His chest riddled with entry and exit wounds. His LED spinning red, an angry spot in the dimness of the living room. The faint light from the streetlamps reflecting off his blood as it pooled under him. The crunch of static in his throat as he tried to speak.

Too much. Hank bites back a sob and wipes his face with his sleeve. Connor watches him still, his face twisted into a pained frown. He doesn’t move as Hank tries to collect himself.

“You protected me,” Hank manages after a moment. “You protected me and now you’re not yourself anymore. There’s so much I want to say and I can’t because you aren't  _ you  _ anymore, Connor. I -“

_ I love you.  _ It hangs there in his throat, a burning admission that he won’t let loose. It stings and it hurts and there’s so much more clinging to his insides that he wants to say but be can’t. Connor looks at him, searching, a glimmer of recognition in his eyes. Hank hates it, and loves him. He loves him, and that hurts most of all.

Connor doesn’t speak. His hand smoothes over Hank’s injured shoulder again, his eyes dragging over Hank’s jacket like he can see the bullet wound there under all of Hank’s layers. Hank allows the pressure even as it begins to hurt, his body tense with the ache to pull Connor to him and just hold him. 

He doesn’t. Connor’s hand stops over his heart, his palm flat against Hank’s sternum as his fingers spread out. It’s a familiar gesture that he used to use often when lying next to Hank, a comfort to him to feel Hank’s heartbeat. A lullaby of sorts as he fell into stasis, a baseline that comforted him beyond what Hank could understand. 

That hurts, too. Hank presses his hand over Connor’s, feeling his soft skin and the bumps of his knuckles. Connor looks at him with his gaze full of pain and confusion, his LED whirring between yellow and red rapidly.

“I -“ Connor starts, then stops. Something behind those eyes clicks, recognition flaring, his body tensing all at once. A bubble of hope sits right under Hank’s ribs, wishing, hoping. 

This is it. Finally, the pain will stop. Finally, this will all be over.

And then Connor shakes his head. He stares at Hank like he just shattered the world, like he threw a snow globe to the ground holding all of Hank’s hopes and dreams and just watched it scatter across the floor. The recognition dies in his eyes and a huge piece of Hank dies along with it.

He doesn’t remember. He probably never will remember.

“I’m sorry,” Connor mumbles. His voice cracks and it hurts and Hank can’t take it anymore.

He drops Connor’s hand. He nods, he swallows, he fights back the pain. He pats Connor on the shoulder and stands up. Markus is there, hovering uneasily, standing halfway between them and the back door. Hank moves past him and doesn’t look at anyone as he enters his room and closes the door. 

Sleep doesn’t find him. A drink does, and his gun does, but he doesn’t have the strength to pull the trigger.

He never has.

  
  


1010101

 

Immediately after being reinitialized, he knows something is wrong.

These people seem to know him, even as he draws a blank. Of course, he knows who they are from the scans that he does - knows that most of them are rather important figures, even if he doesn’t understand why. Markus and Simon are rather prominent androids, the leaders of some sort of uprising that he somehow took part of himself. That confuses him even more. How could he have done something so monumental and not remember a thing?

This Lieutenant Hank Anderson seems to know him quite a lot. He seems upset when Connor greets him, and only seems to get angrier as the night continues. So Connor stops interacting with any of them, shrinking back into his own thoughts, trying to make order of a chaos he barely has a grasp on anyway.

It’s hard, sifting through things he experienced but doesn’t remember experiencing. It’s almost like seeing himself outside of himself, standing just slightly outside his body, a ghost of a ghost. Some things are completely out of his grasp - gone, tossed to the winds of fate for him to discover later. Others are too big, too much, a memory within a memory that threatens to overload everything that he does remember. 

He trusts them, though. Somehow, he knows he can trust them. They will fight for him and protect him and somewhere, deep down, a voice is telling him they already have. For a split second it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t remember, because the comfort of these people around him, strangers wearing familiar faces, is enough.

It’s enough. Almost. 

And then something flashes across his processes, bright and familiar. He sees the dog - Sumo - and a flood of memories comes back to him. Walking in the snow with a leash in his hand, sitting at a dinner table trying to coax tricks out of stubborness and old age, the feeling of coarse fur under his palms. A couch where he reclines with the Lieutenant, Sumo spread between them, their hands meeting in the middle as they pet him.

He misses Sumo. He loves Sumo. His chest is so full of warmth that he nearly falls over. The feeling is dizzying and for some reason he finds himself searching for confirmation from someone he doesn’t remember.

And that’s when things begin to hurt.

Because he  _ does _ remember. Little things, inconsequential things. The scratch of a beard against his cheek, the smell of expensive whiskey, hands too big and rough to be his own gliding over the curve of his ribs. He remembers lying in a bed with a too-warm body next to his and the sound of jazz floating through scratchy speakers as he stares out the window of a car.

A coin taken from him in an elevator. The brush of fingers through his hair. The smell of blood that isn’t his own.

He inexplicably knows it’s the Lieutenant. The pain on the other man’s face is answer enough when Connor looks at him with questions.

He doesn’t know why the Lieutenant’s hurt is his own hurt. The twist of the Lieutenant’s brow and the pained frown on his lips is enough for Connor to want to understand. He tries to sift through his memories but none of them make sense in the jumbled mess that they are, all of them flitting by his grasp just a little too quick. His fingertips brush them but they’re gone before he can get a firm grasp. They disappear in his files somewhere he can’t readily find, under names he doesn’t recognize, in places he can’t even imagine to look.

It hurts. He hurts. He was built to find and coax and understand, and now he doesn’t. It leaves a hole in him that he can’t fill -  a hole that he knows the Lieutenant can fill.

Not remembering hurts the Lieutenant more. He knows there’s something between them, understands that they were more than just partners. He can see it in the things he does remember, tight heat and a warm mouth and  _ oh _ , sweet release, being one, he loves, he loves, he loves. He does. He knows it.

But why. How. When.

He doesn’t know. It hurts the Lieutenant. Watching him get up and leave Connor alone in the snow had been enough for him to understand that he had to figure this out fast. He was running out of time.

So he does what he was built to do. 

He knows the box on the dining room table is evidence from the DPD. Chris and Naomi are asleep, and the Lieutenant is pretending to be, tossing back and forth in his room as he fretfully searches for rest. He wants to comfort him, to follow the indescribable urge to sneak into the Lieutenant’s room and slip under the sheets.

He wants to. He almost does. Instead, he opens the evidence box in the dark, his optical sensors adjusting to compensate so he doesn’t wake anyone, especially the baby.

He pulls out files and opens them one by one. He spreads the photos out on the table, the glossy finish of the photo paper catching the glare from the floodlight in the backyard as it reflects off the snow. He scans all of them, downloading each one and comparing it to the glimpses in his memory he recognizes.

And then he sees himself. Broken, riddled with bullet holes, thirium splattered around him, blue mixing with red. His eyes are dark and his hair is matted and there’s so much blood, so much of it around him, he -

He  _ remembers _ . He remembers pushing Hank to the side, remembers the android woman standing over him as she pressed the gun under her chin. Remembers Hank’s strangled voice as he called his name and his hands framing his face, warm, wet,  _ home _ . Lips on his brow, his mouth, leaving a wetness behind.

Then nothing. Darkness. 

He stumbles back, flailing out to grab something, anything. His hand catches on a chair and he barely avoids knocking it over as he sinks to the floor, his knees buckling, his weight suddenly too much. His heart beats so fast in his chest and something constricts his throat to the point that he can’t breathe even though he doesn’t need to breathe. He tries to suck in a breath but he can’t and it  _ hurts _ and -

Chasing Rupert over rooftops, yanking Hank back up over the edge, the Chicken Feed and the station. Hank assuring him that he can distract Perkins and then doing so beautifully at the expense of his own job. The flash of the television in front of them that they aren’t really paying attention to, hands on his hips, around his back, up his shirt, so warm and comforting. A first kiss in the dimness of the living room, waking up scared, he  _ died _ , Hank, he  _ died _ and came back and he was scared but Hank is there, holding him as the room spins, as his chest heaves with breath he doesn’t need.

A warm bed, a warm body, Hank against him and around him, everything that he knows and loves. And he does love, so much it hurts, so much that he can barely grasp at the tail ends of so many memories coming back to him at once. He loves and he hurts and Hank -

_ Hank.  _

_ “Hank.” _

He remembers. 

 

1010101

 

Sleep is a hard precipice for him to fall over. It was easier when be drank a lot. Being drunk and passing out helped him exist in this fucked up world, and now that he didn’t have easy access to alcohol, it was harder to pass from just groggy almost-sleep to full on dead to the world.

Which means he hears his bedroom door click open and closed. His foggy brain thinks it might be Sumo wandering in and out, and even still he thinks its his dog when the bed dips and the covers rustle as someone gets in beside him. He only opens his eyes when a familiar hand brushes the hair out of his face and trails down his jaw. And then seeing Connor lying next to him  _ really  _ freaks him out, because the android hasn’t been sleeping next to him since they’ve been staying with Chris and Naomi.

He sits up suddenly and flails to find the bedside table light. He flicks it on, blinking away the sudden pain as the room comes into more focus, and turns back towards Connor. He freezes when he sees the absolutely wrecked look on Connor’s face, his heart clenching, everything in him screaming to hug and to comfort.

Connor sits up as well and scoots a bit closer. His eyes search Hank’s face and when Hank stares back he can see recognition there, those brown eyes wide with understanding and fear. Hank dares to reach out and touch Connor’s arm, sliding his palm up to his shoulder - Connor doesn’t shy away, his throat working as if he was trying to say something, his mouth twisted into a pained lopsided frown.

“I,” Connor starts. His voice cracks and it breaks Hank’s heart. He holds his breath, wishing to any god out there for this to be real and not a dream. Connor swallows thickly and tries again, his voice broken and quiet. “I remember.”

Hank doesn’t move. He nods once, something inside him welling so huge under his ribs that he can barely breathe. It’s a miracle he manages to squeeze his words out with the pressure against his windpipe.

“Do you remember me?” Hank says slowly. Hopefully. Please, Connor, remember me.

Connor nods. Something in him breaks, too, fingers twisting in the sheets. “I love you, Hank. I’m sorry.”

Hank yanks him against his chest. Connor wraps his arms around him, his face finding the crook of his shoulder, a shaky breath leaving him as a wetness starts to bloom against Hank’s neck. He pulls Connor impossibly closer and turns to press kisses against the android’s ear and hair, everywhere he can reach, his hands tight in Connor’s soft tee shirt.

“I’m sorry,” Connor mumbles against his skin. Hank hushes him, his heart full to breaking. Connor keeps speaking anyway. “I should have known it was a trap and I should have fought back. I’m sorry I didn’t remember you. Hank, I’m so sorry.”

“Shut up,” Hank manages. His throat burns and he knows he’s crying too, but ignores it. Connor clings to him, moving closer, kicking away the blankets as he gets so close to Hank that he’s practically plastered across Hank’s front. Hank hurts but it’s different now, the pain sweet as it curls around his chest, every muscle in his body relaxing from a tension he didn’t know he’d been holding for the past couple days. 

He hushes Connor again as he tries to apologize and reaches over to pull off his shoes. Connor leans away enough to help him, tossing them somewhere to the other side of the room along with his jeans. They sink together into the sheets, warm and finally whole. The anger under Hank’s dissipates and when Connor tilts his head to kiss him, sweet and soft, Hank feels the rest of the tightness in his throat leave him.

He presses their foreheads together and wipes the tears from Connor’s cheeks. Connor blinks at him, mouth pressed into a pained line and his eyelashes clinging together from crying. He’s beautiful, and Hank loves him. 

Fuck. But he’s also mad.

“Don’t fuckin’ do that again,” Hank grunts. Connor nods, his hands curling around Hank’s shoulders, his fingers finding Hank’s hair. Hank presses a kiss to Connor’s chin, his tone still slightly flat. “I mean it. Never again. I know you don’t know how to listen but I seriously mean it. If I have to go through this again I’m shooting you and myself.”

Connor nods again. “I know. The statistical chance of you surviving was low, and while I knew I could die, being rebuilt was still a viable option.” He cuts himself off, voice hoarse. “I… If you had died, Hank… I wouldn’t be here, either.”

Connor never struck him as suicidal, or one to hold himself to ultimatums. But he catches Connor’s meaning and smoothes his hands down Connor’s sides, wrapping his arms around Connor’s middle. Connor shifts to lay half on top of him and pulls the blankets back up to cover them, cocooning them in warmth. Hank feels safe now, Connor’s heavy weight on top of him and the world blocked away, at least for now. 

Safe. And happy. And fuck, is he really tired.

“Never again,” Hank grumbles. Connor smiles - a real, bright smile, only slightly watery and tense. Hank kisses that smile before letting Connor lay his head down, the android’s ear to his sternum. 

“Never again,” Connor repeats. There isn’t sarcasm there, but there is a smile, and Hank accepts it. He knows Connor won’t ever stop trying to protect him, that particular part of him always ready to spring to action should the situation call for it. In Connor’s mind, he was still expendable, even if death truly scared him.

But Connor is here now. Warm and protected. Whole, with everything that makes him  _ him _ back inside his stupidly expensive noggin. Hank kisses that noggin, presses his nose into dark curls and relishes the feeling of Connor breathing under his hands.

Never in a million years did Hank of a month and a half ago think he’d be here with an armful of android. Never in a million years did Hank of last week think he’d be here dealing with said android struggling with amnesia. He deigns not to think too much about it, for once focusing on the now instead of the past or future. 

  
He’s here. He’s warm. He’s  _ Connor _ , most importantly, and the Hank of ten minutes ago couldn’t have been more happy if he was told right to his face that he’d be here. The Hank of right now most certainly is, and maybe that’s the only Hank that matters.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i apologize for the delay on this. ao3 was screwing up for everyone so i couldnt post last night. but we're approaching the end! everyone hang in there!

Two days after Connor regains his memory, they’re given the go ahead to return home. Fowler is waiting for them on the front porch with the keys to the new lock, his face carefully blank. Hank leads Connor up to the door, Sumo wiggling between them, his excitement bleeding into Hank as he enthusiastically reaches out to shake Fowler’s hand.

“I thought you would just leave the keys in the mailbox,” Hank says. “Standing out here in the cold is kind of creepy.”

Fowler scoffs. “We did work inside that I thought I should be here for.” His eyes slide to Connor, an apology plain in his expression. “Besides. I think I owe you a couple words, given everything that’s happened.”

Connor dips his chin. Hank feels a swell of warmth in his chest as Fowler reaches out and claps Connor’s shoulder, squeezing it and smiling - honest to god  _ smiling _  - at Connor’s surprised quirk to his mouth as his head jerks back up to stare at their boss.

“You’re a brave man, Connor,” Fowler says. “A brave detective. Risking your life again and again has earned you a lot of respect at the station. And from me.”

Connor works his throat, confusion clearly written across his face. He glances at Hank, seeking direction, but only gets a shrug in return. Fowler squeezes his shoulder one last time and then drops his hand.

“Thank you, Connor,” he says. “Thank you for doing what other officers can’t.”

Connor nods stiffly. Fowler mirrors him, then holds out the keys to Hank, the line of his shoulders nervous. Hank slowly takes the keys, eyeing Connor’s yellow LED and relieved expression before he turns and unlocks the door.

Instead of the gruesome blood stains and bullet holes riddling his floor and couch that he expected to see, a pristine entryway and brand new couch greets him. The dust and dirt from many people coming in and out of his house is gone, with the furniture cleaned and his kitchen scrubbed spotless. It looks as if someone went through everything to make sure it was all clean and in its place - he wouldn’t put it past the DPD’s cleanup crews to have even dusted the damn place. He steps inside, noting the lack of creaky floorboards, and turns a smile on Fowler as he follows Hank inside.

“At least you replaced my damn floor. I don’t think bullet holes are quite in style.”

Hank’s tone is joking, but Fowler’s expression is tense all the same. He moves to the side to allow Connor and Sumo past him, his eyes trailing along the android’s tall frame before he leads Sumo out to the backyard. Hank watches Fowler watch Connor as the android disappears, the room suddenly growing tense, Fowler’s face shuttering as he stares at the door leading out to the garage.

He knows what Fowler is feeling. Hank wasn’t the best detective in Detroit all those years ago for nothing - and he knows his friend well enough to recognize the unease written plain on his face.

“It’s not your fault, Jeffrey,” Hank says, quietly. Fowler’s eyes snap to him and he crosses his arms, then leans on the back of the new couch the DPD bought to replace the bloodied one from weeks ago.

He doesn’t seem convinced. “I pushed you both to solve this even after he was rebuilt the first time,” he says quietly. Fowler is such a loud man that having him here, curled in on himself and unsure, is a shock. Hank hasn’t seen him like this for a long while.

He understands, though. They’re still friends, despite everything, and now that Hank has the energy to actually pursue his job again, the tensions between them are practically nonexistent. Fowler still busts his balls about his irritability, but gone are the days of trying to coax Hank into trying to just show up at work. Some days were harder than others, but Hank wanted to try.

He had someone else to try for, after all. No longer was he just fending for himself.

Hank leans back against the couch next to Fowler. Connor’s voice carries faintly through the walls as he tries to work off some of Sumo’s energy with a game of catch, the sounds of his laugh enough to set Hank at ease. He elbows Fowler and raises an amused brow at him when his friend turns, keeping his expression loose and easy.

“Unless you went and orchestrated all this yourself, I wouldn’t worry about it,” Hank says. “It’s not like you were forcing this down our throats.”

“I practically was,” Fowler counters. “Do you know how many eyes are on our precinct? He’s the only android of his kind, and he’s one of five androids in this country responsible for the revolution. There are a lot of people looking at you two, Hank. Your success in this case and upcoming cases is pivotal to whether they can continue to work in places like this.”

Hank bites the inside of his cheek. Wow, he didn’t think of that. “We’re the poster boys, huh?”

Fowler nods. “Yeah. You’re it. His continued employment - and the employment of his entire species - hinges on whether you succeed or fail.”

That’s a daunting thought. He knew Connor was special - there was very little about him that was just  _ ordinary  _ \- but to have it all resting on their shoulders? Hank’s protective streak raises its massive head, his chest constricting with the thought of Connor failing.

It wasn’t possible. Connor always found a way, in the end. Hank couldn't get in the way of that even if he tried.

He scratches his chin, eyes glancing across his living room. Well, no time like the present. He knows Fowler is asking him permission in all his admissions, is probing to make sure that Hank is alright with continuing on the path that they’re already being railroaded into. He knows Fowler will pull the plug and put them back on easier cases if it means securing Connor’s safety from the probing eyes of the - well, the entire world, practically.

He knows, and he shakes his head anyway. Fowler visibly deflates and nods, his arms coming down as he shoves away from the couch.

“Alright,” he says. He points at Hank, suddenly stern, his voice taking on a familiar hardness that makes Hank smile. “I don’t want to hear any bitching. The cases you get are going to be the hardest we have, even with Connor working them. Don’t think this’ll be a cakewalk.”

Hank snorts out a laugh. “Trust me. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The Hank of two months ago would disagree. But Fowler accepts this, his face softening just enough for Hank to know that he appreciates it. “I knew I could count on you.”

Hank shrugs. “You can count on him, too.”

Fowler’s eyes flick to the back door and back again. He nods, satisfied, and shrugs on his coat before showing himself out. Silence permeates the house again, the cold still seeping through to his bones as the furnace works to overcome it. Hank starts a fire in the fireplace to help stave it off in the living room when Connor comes back inside, his cheeks and nose flushed red, a huge grin on his face as Sumo shakes snow from his fur.

Hank watches as Connor does so as well, knocking chunks of white off his shoulders and from his hair. He hangs Sumo’s lead off the back of a chair in the kitchen and circles to where Hank’s poking at the fire, his smile still gracing his lips, his brown eyes bright in the glittering light from the fire. Hank smiles back at him and straightens to plant a kiss across Connor’s jaw. Sumo collapses in front of the fire, panting and tail wagging.

“You look like you just rolled in the snow for the past ten minutes,” Hank quips. Connor nods and collapses back into their new couch, his long legs extending out in front of him as he slouches into the cushions.

“Sumo is quite pushy when he wants to be,” Connor says, breathless. Hank sits next to him and throws his arm across Connor’s shoulders, bringing their foreheads together. Connor’s smile is still bright as he speaks. “I suppose he just wanted someone to wrestle with that was equal in his strength. Although, I don’t know if I won or lost.”

They watch as Sumo slumps onto his paws with a huff. Connor has his breathing under control now, though his face is still red from exertion. Hank turns a raised brow on Connor, who shrugs.

“I guess I won?”

Hank laughs. “Yeah, kid. I think you did.”

Connor manages to wiggle out of his jacket as Hank wraps his arms around him and tosses it onto the recliner before he curls against Hank’s side. His hands and face are cold where his skin touches Hank’s, his fingers curling into Hank’s shirt as he presses a light kiss under Hank’s ear. His icy lips make Hank shiver, but he doesn’t push him away.

“You’re awfully clingy,” Hank comments.

“You’re warm,” Connor says petulantly. He shoves his hands up the back of Hank’s shirt to emphasize his point. Hank smacks his arm lightly, only pretending to be annoyed.

“Cuddling doesn’t have to have an ulterior motive, Connor,” he says.

Connor mumbles, his LED flashing yellow. “I know. I just… wanted to make sure.”

Hank rolls his eyes. “Connor. We’re well past the point of having to ask for that stuff. At least at home.”

To prove his point, he pushes Connor away and moves to the recliner, pulling Connor along by his hand. He sits back and kicks off his shoes, motioning for Connor to do the same, before he arranges the android’s considerable weight on top of him and kicks back so the chair footrest pops out. Connor leans up and pulls the throw blankets over them, then tucks his head under Hank’s chin, his hands curling over Hank’s side to play absentmindedly with the hem of his shirt.

His weight is comfortable on top of Hank, even though he’s pretty sure he’s around two hundred pounds of solid steel and plastic. Connor is content to stay where he is, his heartbeat solid where Hank’s hand rests between his shoulder blades. But there’s a nervousness to his hands, his fingers too fidgety in Hank’s clothes, his body just a little too tense as he curls into Hank’s side.

Hank turns his face and kisses Connor’s hair, smoothing a hand down Connor’s back under the blanket. “What’s the matter?”

Connor takes a moment to answer, his fingers twisting into Hank’s shirt before he lets it go and finds Hank’s other hand to play with.

“I would do it again, you know?” he says quietly. “What I did last week.”

Hank’s heart clenches. “Connor -“ he starts, voice tight.

“No. I would do it again, Hank.”

Connor sits up, leaning back in Hank’s lap. It’s attractive, his thighs straddling Hank’s hips, his dark jeans tight around his shapely thighs. But his expression is dark, almost depreciative. Hank sits up a bit to cradle his face between his hands, thankful, at least, that Connor doesn’t shy away from him this time.

“I would do it again,” Connor says again, hard. “I don’t want to die, but seeing you hurt - just your shoulder -“

His hand slides up Hank’s chest to rest over his wounded side. The stitches came out that morning in the shower, the skin tender and red with a still-healing slash that cut across his pectoral and around the curve of his ribcage. Connor traces that line with his long fingers, careful, curious, with a hint of something else tugging down the corner of his lips.

Hurt. Hank hates it, hates that he causes it. It brings him too close to those days when he did nothing but push Connor away.

Hank rubs his thumbs into Connor’s sharp hip bones through his button up, pressing his mouth into a thin line. Connor could be beyond stubborn a whole lot of the time - a trait they both shared. Which made it harder to convince his stupid supercomputer of a brain that sometimes self sacrifice wasn’t what humans wanted all the goddamn time.

But Connor wasn’t the only one that still hurt.

“Do you know how fucking scared I’ve been?” Hank says quietly. Connor stills, his eyes snapping to Hank’s, the line of his body on top of Hank’s tense. Hank continues, his hands finding Connor’s. “I’ve seen you die twice now, Connor. And both times I wasn’t sure you would come back.”

“But you won’t come back at all, Lieutenant. At least I have a chance at -“

“No.” The sound of his title hurt. Connor’s face twists, pained, his eyes going glassy as if he might cry. Hank sits up all the way and cups Connor’s face again, tipping their foreheads together. “You aren’t expendable, Connor. You can be fixed, and have parts replaced, but you’re a person. People can die.  _ You _  can die. You have already, and I’m too fucking old and broken to keep watching you do that to yourself.”

Connor sniffs wetly. He nods, a small, strangled sound leaving his throat. It breaks Hank’s heart even as Connor wraps his arms around Hank’s shoulders and hugs him tightly. Hank turns his face and presses a hard kiss against Connor’s jaw, his own breath coming out shaky.

“Not anymore,” he whispers uneasily. Connor nods against his shoulder, his fingers coming up to card through his hair. Always in Hank’s hair. He loves it.

“I love you,” Connor says. “I’ll still protect you. But I’ll protect myself, too.”

Hank nods. He lays back again, pulling Connor down with him, the android’s legs still straddling his hips. His weight is comfortable and warm, and when they settle back, Connor kisses him. Chaste at first, his lips a slow insistence against Hank’s, his fingers coming around from Hank’s hair to curl around his jaw. Hank kisses back, demanding nothing else, the weight in his chest lifting as Connor settles on top of him.

And then, because Connor has little self control when it comes to what he wants, he rolls his hips against Hank’s in a clear signal that he wants something more.

Hank shutters out a sigh, amused as he kisses Connor a little more deeply. “You’re insatiable.”

Connor shudders. He pulls away, the sound of their lips smacking apart loud in the quiet living room. His face is slightly tight in disappointment. “I’m sorry. We haven’t had sex since a couple weeks ago and I thought, because of the moment -“

Hank cups Connor’s ass through his jeans. He smiles at the small jump that startles out of Connor.

“That wasn’t a no,” he says huskily.

Connor’s smile is small but bright. “Okay.”

He leans back down and kisses Hank, licking into his mouth with his sensitive tongue. Connor can’t taste like Hank can - can’t discern sweet from salty, spicy or bland, his sensors robust and able to calculate the exact chemical makeup of anything on the planet besides what something actually tastes like. But he moans all the same, the sound vibrating between them and through them, whatever he feels when his tongue slides over Hank’s enough to send him reeling. Hank likes the feeling of Connor’s mouth too, the smooth texture of his perfect teeth opposed to the ridged roof of his mouth.

At first it was odd, the way Cyberlife decided to make Connor - an infiltration detective android - so real. Created for such a single-minded purpose and yet his mouth was slick with saliva and his tongue textured with sensors disguised as taste buds. Hank sucks on that tongue, dragging another moan from Connor, relishing the sound as the android grinds down on him.

They part, mostly for Hank to breathe. They haven’t been intimate since the first time Connor was reinitialized, and it sets Hank on edge just enough that he tries to move slowly. He keeps his hands over Connor’s ass, guiding him as he moves, their breath mingling together, Hank’s shaky and low. Connor grips his shoulders as Hank sits up more fully, his hips moving in slow circles, his growing erection rubbing against Hank’s through the layers of their jeans.

Hank moves a hand up and pushes his fingers slowly up Connor’s shirt. Connor sighs against his cheek, slowing his hips, his shoulders rolling back. He takes the silent hint and starts unbuttoning his shirt, revealing pale skin peppered with freckles. Hank loves his skin, loves the feel of it against his palms and under his mouth. As Connor shrugs out of his shirt, he kisses his chest, up one pectoral and down again to lave over one pink nipple.

Connor shudders, his breath hitching and his hands curling around the nape of Hank’s neck. Hank sucks over that nipple again, touching along Connor’s sides and back, light touches meant to tease. Connor’s head falls back on his shoulders and he presses his chest into Hank’s mouth, his back bowing into Hank’s hands.

“Oh, Hank,” Connor moans shakily. Hank leaves a trail of open mouthed kisses along his sternum, lingering there to feel his heartbeat fluttering quickly under his chassis. His skin is warm under his lips, textured with fine hairs and moles. He kisses lower, savoring the feeling of Connor under his mouth before he dips lower, following the slight indication of ab muscles rippling over Connor’s stomach to his naval.

Connor sits up on his knees to allow Hank’s mouth further down. Hank slips his hands down the back of his jeans, his fingers searching, causing the android’s hips to stutter against Hank’s chest. Hank smiles against Connor’s stomach, his breath tickling the coarse brown hair at the beginnings of Connor’s happy trail. He doesn’t pull his hands from Connor’s jeans.

“Want me to help you out of them?” he says lowly. He pulls at the hem of Connor’s pants for clarification when Connor tilts his head, curious.

“Only if you get undressed too,” Connor says, amused.

Hank grunts, but smiles anyway. “What an ultimatum. Fine, you brat.”

Connor’s smile is smug as he stands partially and kicks off his jeans. He helps Hank out of his shirt and undershirt, tossing the offending clothing somewhere behind the couch. Hank snorts and wiggles out of his own jeans as well, the scrape of the zipper painful over his sensitive erection.

“Much easier to get you naked this time,” Connor says, a laugh in his voice. Hank rolls his eyes and snaps the waistband of Connor’s briefs, not bothering to hide the lustful look in his eyes.

“I think you should practice what you preach,” Hank says.

Connor raises a challenging brow and drops his briefs in one fluid motion. His cock springs free, dribbling lubricant from the flushed tip. Hank zeros in on the sight before him and pulls Connor back into his lap, his hands sliding over his strong thighs and around to cup his ass.

He’s much prettier naked, with the light of the fire casting a warm flickering glow across the right side of his face and shoulder, creating a halo of orange that rings his dark hair. Hank knows what is under this skin, has seen enough of his chassis and biocomponents to know that under this soft, generated barrier is a hard plasteel casing with an even harder steel skeleton packed full of sensors and delicate artificial organs. He’s literally holding in his hands the most expensive android ever created - and he’s literally making him come apart under his mouth.

It’s a heady feeling. All that processing power and Connor chose to spend it doing  _ this _  - fucking an old man. The thought makes him feel sick, his chest constricting uncomfortably, anxiety crawling up his throat. His distraction must be noticeable because Connor slides his hands over Hank’s broad shoulders and kisses him, bringing his attention back to the task at hand.

“I’m wet for you, Lieutenant,” Connor whispers into his ear. Hank shudders a sigh, the android’s words shooting right through him down to his aching cock. He never thought his title could be used against him in such an erotic way, but he found that he liked it.

Instead of responding, he dips his fingers between Connor’s asscheeks and lightly fingers his entrance. Connor’s hips jerk and stop, a broken sigh escaping his lips, his fingernails scraping up Hank’s back to the back of his neck. Of course, Connor was right - he was slick already with lubricant, his hole fluttering against the pads of Hank’s fingers. When he pushes one finger inside, Connor practically melts, his entire body going boneless.

“There we go,” Hank hums, pleased. Connor moans, his hips resuming their slow grind, now bearing down on Hank’s hand. Hank presses another finger inside and curls them towards his stomach, searching for the flat sensor that mimics a human prostate.

He doesn’t find it immediately. Connor’s walls clench around his fingers, his silken heat tight and loose at the same time. He enjoys doing this, feeling Connor come undone just from his fingers, his body a languid, moving line, his hips stuttering when Hank finally finds that spot inside him. He fingers him deeper, abusing that spot as Connor almost yells, his voice breaking on Hank’s name.

“Hank,” Connor shouts as Hank sucks another hard kiss over one of his nipples, his fingers curling and then stretching inside him. His cock ruts against Hank’s stomach, an insistent hardness slick with his own lubricant, his hips snapping forward and then rolling down back onto Hank’s hand.

“I got you,” Hank murmurs. Connor’s head tilts to the side and back, his hair curling into his face as he moves, his expression slack in pleasure. A broken moan leaves him after a particularly harsh twist of Hank’s hand, his ass clenching around him as he tries to keep his fingers inside him.

“I still have you,” Hank reassures as he pulls his hand away. Connor’s thighs shiver with the effort it takes for him not to seek his orgasm against Hank’s stomach. Hank presses a couple lighter kisses against his collarbone and pulls Connor against him as he leans back into the recliner, dragging Connor properly into his lap.

“I liked your fingers,” Connor complains. Hank pulls him down into a sweet kiss, a consolation as much as it is to sate the urge to have Connor’s lips on his. Connor’s tone is still cranky when he leans back. “Hank,  _ please.” _

“So pushy.”

“Because you felt so good.”

Hank snorts and slips a finger back inside him. Connor sighs, his face slackening again, his back arching onto Hank’s hand.

He doesn’t allow it for long. Hank pulls his hand away again, kissing away Connor’s frustrated sigh. He pushes Connor away enough so he can pull off his own boxers and then motions for him to sit back on top of him, one hand on his flank to steady him. Connor follows Hank’s lead as the other man arranges him over Hank’s thick cock, his knees spread wide over his hips, his hands pressed into Hank’s chest to keep himself from toppling over. His expression is curious and excited, his eyes hooded and breath coming quicker than normal.

No one has looked at Hank like that for a long time. No one has looked at him with such unbridled desire and lust in pretty much… ever. He soaks it in, soaks in Connor’s red cheeks and parted lips, his brown eyes dark and thirsty. His LED has been pulsing between yellow and red since they started kissing, a constant nervous glow at his temple at odds with the warm light from the fire behind him. He’s gorgeous, the expanse of his pale skin a delicious sight, his freckles and beauty marks catching Hank’s gaze as he scrapes his eyes up and down his form.

He sits poised above Hank’s lap like he might shake apart if he moves an inch. Hank smoothes his hands up Connor’s sides and his chest, feeling his hammering heartbeat, his laboured breathing, the bob of his adam’s apple as he swallows. He cups Connor’s jaw and kisses him, slow, meandering, asking for nothing more than to feel Connor’s mouth against his own.

Connor sighs through his nose and kisses back. He reaches behind himself and takes Hank in hand and angles his hips, the head of Hank’s dick brushing his wet asshole. Hank grunts, the feeling of Connor slippery and ready for him a heady feeling. And then he’s pressing inside, Connor slowly sitting back on his cock with a satisfied groan. Within seconds Hank is fully sheathed inside him, his walls squeezing him in erratic intervals, tight and relaxed at the same time.

“Fuck,” Hank grunts. Connor laughs, a low sound in his throat. He tips his head back, his hair falling further into his face.

“That’s the idea,” Connor sighs.

Hank grips Connor’s thighs and rolls his hips up experimentally, grunting another curse as Connor whines at the insistent weight inside him. Hank pulls out part way, Connor’s satin walls gripping around him as he tries to keep him inside. He snaps back inside Connor, punching a high shout out of him.

He smiles. “Okay. Help an old man out, Connor.”

Connor is more than happy to oblige. With his hands planted firmly on Hank’s chest, he begins to move, undulating his hips in slow up and down circles. His expression tightens in concentration as Hank moves his hips up to meet him on each downstroke, murmuring encouragements as the android rides him.

He doesn’t force a pace, either, content with Connor’s slow glide up and down his cock. Little sounds escape him, sighs and grunts and curses. The heat around his dick is like nothing else, Connor’s body a furnace that he wants to melt into. He plants his feet firmly on the footrest and snaps his hips a little harder up into Connor’s ass, huffing with the effort, the broken moans leaving Connor’s mouth more than worth it.

And then, as Hank moves to sit up, his hands curling around Connor’s back to better steady him, the android gives a vicious twist of his hips. The head of Hank’s dick presses into that flat sensor deep inside Connor, and Connor  _ yells _ .

“Fuck!” Connor shouts. He tightens around Hank so tight that Hank sees stars, his own moan ripping out of his throat. He chases that spot again, Connor’s nails scratching angry lines over his shoulders, his legs spreading wider as one of Hank’s hands slips between them to stroke his cock.

Connor jolts at the sudden attention. His body seizes, a choked sound escaping him, his arms tightening around Hank’s neck.

“Hank,” Connor says brokenly. His hips pick up the pace, his thighs trembling. The slick noises of Hank slipping in and out of him fill the room along with their quick breathing.

Hank sucks a kiss under Connor’s jaw. “I’m right here, Connor,” he grits out. He speeds up his hand, the position awkward but worth it as Connor’s slick heat slides over him quicker and quicker. “I’m here. I’ve got you. Oh, I’ve got you.”

Connor nods, his mouth hanging open as he pants. He leans his head to the side, giving Hank the access he wants. Hank licks up the column of his neck, tasting nothing more than clean silicone and the slight bitterness of soap. But the feeling is there, Connor’s skin pliant under his mouth, warm underneath his tongue.

Real.  _ Human _ . A pulse under his lips and a redness blooming where Hank sucked a kiss against his throat. He loves it.

And then the pace shifts. Quicker, more insistent. Connor moans, Hank’s cock hitting his prostate sensor over and over, loud moans punching out of him with each thrust, his hips stuttering after his release. Hank can feel his own orgasm building in his gut, too, a coiling of heat and tension that collects right behind his balls. He chases it, gripping Connor’s thighs tightly, afraid for a moment that he might bruise Connor and then remembering that he can’t.

He can’t, and oh, fuck, does that give him the energy to just pile drive into Connor. Connor shouts his name again, his back arching, his head tilting back in a loud, broken moan. He clenches around Hank, impossibly tight and hot. Hank speeds up his fist around Connor’s cock, brushing his thumb over the sculpted head, smearing the lubricant over the glands and back down his long shaft. Connor chokes on a moan, his arms tight around Hank’s shoulders, Hank’s mouth on his throat, sucking, stroking, thrusting as hard as he can, hitting that spot inside him as his hand tightens around Connor’s cock, chasing and chasing and  _ chasing  _ -

“ _ Hank!  _ Oh, Hank, I’m coming,  _ fuck,  _ I love you, Hank,  _ ah -!” _

Connor spurts lubricant over Hank’s fist as he seizes completely, body stiffening in an almost inhuman arch of his back, a broken shout escaping his throat. Hank holds him as he shivers through his release, his hips snapping up, chasing his own orgasm, feeling it mount like a sun-bright heat behind his eyes.

It’s so close. Close, right there in his stomach, tight and hot and fuck, he needs it. Connor clenches tightly around him, over sensitive, a whine keening up his throat as Hank’s hips jerk to a halt as his own orgasm rips through him suddenly.

“Connor,” Hank wheezes. He digs his fingers into the meat of Connor’s thighs and gasps as his body burns through release. All tension leaves his body after that, and he slumps into the cushions of the chair, the sweat that was once slick on his skin cooling in the aftermath of their lovemaking.

Connor goes boneless in his lap. He tips forward, his forehead pressing against Hank’s shoulder as he collapses onto Hank. Hank grunts, then chuckles, his arms wrapping around Connor’s back as he lifts him slightly to pull his softening cock out of him. Connor whines at the loss of contact, his thighs quivering lightly, his breath still coming quickly against Hank’s skin.

They lay there, Connor’s weight comfortable on top of him as they come down from their release. Hank’s skin begins to feel sticky after a couple minutes, his sweat drying and the lubricant Connor has for cum still slick against his stomach. He pokes Connor’s side to wake him from his doze, getting a small sigh in return as Connor shifts minutely off of him.

“C’mon, at least let me clean you up,” Hank murmurs.

Connor shakes his head. “No. You’re warm.”

“I’ll still be warm in the shower, you brat.”

He can feel the smile against his neck. Connor sits up, his LED a serene blue, his face relaxed with a sideways smile that reaches his beautiful eyes. Hank can’t help but smile back - he looks thoroughly debauched, his hair a mess and his stomach shiny from his own ejaculate. Hank kisses him, still smiling, smoothing his palms up Connor’s sides.

“Okay,” Connor concedes after a minute of slow kissing. He gets up, holding his hands out to help Hank, who snorts and takes up the offer.

“I love you, too,” Hank murmurs. Connor blinks, LED whirring, then blushes and looks away. It’s cute, Connor being embarrassed, but he doesn’t let him run away. Hank tips up his chin and presses their foreheads together.

Connor smiles, shy. “I meant it.”

“I know. People tend to say what they mean when they’re coming.”

His smile brightens. It’s beautiful, lopsided and showing just a little bit of teeth. Hank feels such a huge, indescribable amount of love for this stupid android that he burns with it, his skin alighting with goose bumps, his hair standing on end. Connor means so much to him, is such an integral part of his own self that he honestly can’t imagine existing without him.

And he did, for his whole life up until now. He hated androids, wanted nothing more than to burn them to the ground and kick over their ashes. His life had been fucked over by them and he hadn’t begun to even try and entertain the idea that once day he’d be friends with one.

Or in love with one. Or willingly have sex with one.

God. His life took quite a fucking u-turn.

But Connor was his. He was his and his own person, a man that Hank couldn’t imagine his life without. He was everything, Hank’s world and his life, his reason for not drinking himself into oblivion or biting the bullet and shooting himself. He was his reason for living, for getting up in the morning and actually giving enough of a fuck to  _ try _ .

He made this house a home. He made Hank a home. A home he wanted to treasure, to cherish and love and nourish like he couldn’t and didn’t have the chance to do with Cole. His life was Connor now, was Connor and his job and whatever laid ahead of them, an unknown he wasn’t scared of anymore.

Connor was home.  _ Connor _ . His home and his life. It took a lot to get them here - pain and love and learning and sacrifice.

But it was worth it. Connor was worth it.

“You’re my home, Connor,” Hank says.

He smiles. Connor smiles back, warm and loving and genuine.

“You’re my home, too, Hank. You’re my home too.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow. what a ride! looking back, i definitely would have done some things differently, but i'm really happy with this fic and i hope this send off makes up for all the angst, aha. i will be continuing exploring this pairing in future fics, so watch out for me! i really love every single one of you that has commented, given kudos, and silently read along and kept up with me - the turn out for this fic as been humbling to the say the least. i love you all, and i hope to see you with me in the future!
> 
> enjoy!

“Hey! You guys made it!”

Sumo barks loudly and scrambles between Hank’s legs and into the house, narrowly missing Chris as he steps out of the way to allow Hank and Connor inside. Hank manages an apologetic look that Chris meets with a laugh as several children’s voices squeal with joy somewhere in the direction of the living room. 

“Sorry. We didn’t want to leave him cooped up on a holiday,” Connor says through a wide smile. 

Chris chuckles again. “At least the kids will have someone to climb instead of me this time. Is that what took you guys so long?”

Hank flaps his hand and gestures to Connor behind him, his tone put-upon, though his smile betrays him.

“I slept in on accident,” Hank says. Not a complete lie - he and Connor spend the better part of an hour early in the morning just talking, Connor’s stasis-warm body pressed against his, his deft hands working through Hank’s hair in a way that almost put him to sleep again. But it’s not why they’re late, and he’ll be damned if he gives out the real reason.

Of course, Chris sees right through him. His fellow officer rolls his eyes and closes the door behind them as they step in, feigning annoyance. 

“Right,” he says. “What’s the real reason?”

He looks to Connor, and Connor, the fucking traitor, smiles serenely.

“He spent forty-five point three minutes deciding whether to match his shirt to mine,” Connor says helpfully. Hank turns a glare on him and is met with the full force of his bright smile. “Of course, I think he chose correctly. He looks quite handsome.”

Chris smiles as Hank fights down the hot blush crawling up his neck. Connor brushes a hand over Hank’s shoulder and motions for him to shrug out of his coat, an amused look in his eyes. He does so, stubbornly, pulling one arm out and then the other slowly enough that a little crease forms between Connor’s brows.

“Sorry, Connor, I think my joints froze out in the cold,” Hank grumbles. That knot twists deeper, Connor’s LED blinking quicker. Hank eventually gets his coat off his shoulders and Connor takes it, his smile turning amused.

“If you want to annoy me, you’re going to have to try harder,” Connor says. He hangs Hank’s coat up and raises a challenging brow.

“Guys, it’s Christmas,” Chris laughs. “You both look great. I promise we aren’t mad you took an extra hour to get ready.”

Connor turns his stunning smile on Chris while Hank snorts a laugh. “Thank you. Hank is quite prideful in his appearance when he thinks he has to impress me.”

“ _ Connor!” _

Hank swipes at him, meaning to clip his shoulder, but Connor dances away gracefully. He isn’t angry - not by a long shot - but even casual admissions to their relationship could mean the end of everything. It sends a bolt of panic up his spine that he barely manages to hide as Connor stops, his face dropping suddenly.

He covers the distance between them in three long strides. His hands come up over Hank’s shoulders, hovering uneasily, the lines of his body screaming anxiety. Hank manages to squeeze one of Connor’s hands in his own in reassurance before Connor can start apologizing.

“It’s okay, Connor,” Hank grunts. Connor doesn’t look convinced - Hank slips the hand he was using to hold Connor’s around the android’s hip, cradling the small of his back as he sighs. “Seriously. I’m fine.”

Connor bites his lip. His LED circles to red briefly before it flickers from yellow to blue and settles there. He nods, brushing his hand over Hank’s bicep and shoulder. Hank feels his throat close up, fear and anxiety clogging his airway. This shouldn’t be so fucking  _ hard  _ \- he was a cop, for Christ’s sake. This wasn’t his first emotional rodeo even as far as love was concerned.

He could trust these people here. Ben, Chris, and their respective husband and wife knew that Hank and Connor were more than just friends. Knew that their touches and soft words were more than just an accustomed comfort between them. They knew and still Hank’s chest clenched with the fear of being found out, of having Connor taken away. 

Of everything being ripped apart from him and locked away forever. That fear is real and hot in his throat, and only by leaning into Connor and feeling his warmth beside him does he have the strength to blink open his eyes (when did he close them? how long has he been standing here, clinging to Connor?) and suck down the pain.

Chris touches his shoulder, light and reassuring. Hank grimaces and barely meets Chris’ sympathetic stare as Connor shifts against his side, the ghost of a kiss brushing over Hank’s ear.

“It’s alright,” Chris says quietly. “You guys have nothing to worry about here.”

Hank blinks, still tense. “Even with your family here?”

Chris shrugs. “They could care less. If they ask, just be truthful. I’m not going to force you to reveal anything. But you seriously have nothing to worry about here. When the revolution started, they were in support of it.”

Hank swallows thickly. Connor doesn’t say anything as his arm winds around Hank’s shoulders in a partial embrace meant to soothe. No doubt he’s been scanning Hank’s elevated heart rate the entire time, nervous and obsessive and so, so sweet Hank hurts with it. 

“Seriously, Hank,” Chris says, drawing Hank’s attention back to him. “You don’t have to worry about what anyone thinks here.”

Hank nods and manages a smile. “Yeah. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna stop, though.”

Chris bobs his head, a soft look on his face. “You really don’t. No one will bat an eye.”

The thought is nice, that he gets to be affectionate with Connor without worrying about what people see. He’s never been the touchy-feely type, even when he was married. With Connor he was no different, but having the option available - being able to reach out for comfort when he needs it - settles the anxiety constricting his chest.

“Alright,” Hank concedes. He manages to smile at the both of them before bending down and picking up the bag of gifts he brought at his feet. He holds it out to Chris, who takes it with a grateful smile. 

“You guys didn't have to do this,” Chris laughs. He opens the bag and glances inside, his smile getting wider at the small wrapped gifts inside.

Hank scratches his neck awkwardly. “Sorry if they’re small. Kind of hard to shop for people you don’t know.”

Chris shoves his shoulder a bit. “Whatever. The kids’ll love it.”

They all turn as Naomi sticks her head around the corner of the hallway, her long dark hair falling over her shoulder as she raises a brow at them.

“You guys just gonna stand in the hallway?” she says, amused. “You know Sumo is one more pet away from being adopted, right?”

Hank snorts. “He’s spoiled enough at home. I doubt he’ll go anywhere as long as Connor’s around.”

Naomi rolls her eyes. “Just come in and meet everybody before someone kidnaps your dog.”

Chris tosses his head towards the living room, raising a brow at Hank and Connor. “Shall we?”

Hank swallows the dread in his throat and squeezes Connor’s hip before stepping away. Connor smiles at him, small and sincere, his brown eyes warm and just for him. It gives him the strength to nod and follow Chris down the hall into the living room with Connor close behind.

And is promptly greeted by the biggest fucking family he’s seen in his goddamn life.

There’s Naomi, of course, and Liam and Ben nearby; Ben’s husband, Hugo, stands near the Christmas tree with a small circle of other men Hank doesn’t recognize. Everyone else’s gaze snaps to Hank and Connor as they enter, conversation halting.

Except for the kids, naturally, who all hop up from where they were gathered playing Sorry! at the coffee table to circle around the android.

“Whoa! You’re the one from TV!” the little girl says, the oldest of the four children. She’s maybe ten or twelve, and her curious dark eyes roam the android at Hank’s elbow like he’s a party trick waiting to unfold in front of her eyes. Hank snorts at the thought while Connor shifts uneasily.

“You gotta be nice, Emma. Where’re your manners?” a woman seated next to Naomi says. From her tone, it sounds like she’s Emma’s mother.

Emma bites her lip then sticks out her hand, her dark skin doing nothing to hide the blush that crawls up her cheeks. “Sorry,” she mutters. “My name is Emma. What’s your name?”

Connor’s LED flashes yellow before his expression relaxes into a smile. He kneels, folding his height to meet her at eye level, and shakes Emma’s hand, gentle despite the blinking yellow circle at his temple betraying his nerves. 

“I’m Connor,” he says. Emma’s eyes snap to his right temple - Connor tilts his head, trying to hide his LED, his shoulders tensing. Hank tenses with him, glancing around the room for any negative reaction.

He finds none, everyone’s stares curious, not malignant. Even from the other three kids, who reach out to touch Connor on his arm and shoulders as if he’s a zoo animal, their eyes drawn to the little light on the side of his head as it blinks rapidly away with his thoughts. But he’s not in danger, nothing in anyone’s stares saying they’ll jump him if he makes the wrong move.

Hank knocks the thought away as Chris clucks his tongue, a quiet warning in his voice as he peers down at Emma.

“It’s rude to stare,” Chris chides softly from Hank’s right. 

“It’s alright,” Connor says. He turns his head back around, Emma’s eyes never leaving him as he does, revealing his now blue LED to her. It still blinks quickly, his thoughts still not quite settling, but no longer is he agitated. Hank has to hide his smile as another child, this one younger than Emma - maybe four or five, a boy with large brown eyes and curly hair - reaches out and pokes the LED, hard enough that Connor’s synthetic skin around the area folds away with the pressure. Connor winces.

“Please don’t do that. I need that,” Connor murmurs as the child’s hand pulls away and his skin regenerates.

“I’m sorry,” the woman from before says. She scoops up the little boy, offering a sad smile in apology. Connor straightens, smiling back.

“Are they yours?” Connor asks. 

The woman nods. “I’m Rebecca, Naomi’s sister. This is Isaac,” she says, bouncing the boy on her hip, “and of course, little Emma.” She touches the little girl’s hair. Her expression is still tight. “They aren’t used to seeing androids.”

“Did it hurt?” Emma blurts. Hank glances down at her along with everyone else. Connor makes an inquisitive sound next to him, tilting his head.

“Did what hurt?” he says.

“Your shoulder on TV,” Emma clarifies. She points at Connor’s left side, not explaining any further.

Hank elbows Connor lightly, understanding immediately. “She means the gunshot,” he says quietly.

“Oh.” Connor shrugs out of his jacket and rubs over the spot where the wound from other Connor had been, showing his palm to the little girl. Hank can still see the thirium on his palm in his mind’s eye, blue blood bright against his skin and soaking down the front of his shirt. He shakes away the memory with only a slightly concerned glance from Connor. No one else seems to notice. “I got fixed that night, so no need to worry. Thank you for asking, though.”

Emma seems satisfied, her own grin showing crooked teeth. She bounces away at her mother’s insistence, the two other kids hanging around Connor’s legs following her lead. Chris takes the opportunity to clear his throat and gesture to Connor and Hank, drawing everyone’s attention back to them - though it never really left during Connor’s interaction with the kids.

“Everyone, this is Hank Anderson and Connor,” Chris introduces. “Hank is my Lieutenant at the station and Connor just got hired on a couple weeks ago. Though I guess you guys kind of know who he is,” Chris finishes sheepishly. 

Hank waves awkwardly. “Nice to meet you guys.”

A chorus of ‘hello’s follows his greeting. Chris steps around Hank and Connor and starts to point around the room, starting with Hugo to the right next to the Christmas tree.

“You know Hugo, of course,” Chris starts. Hugo smiles and waves. Chris continues on to the three men next to him, pointing as he goes. “Eric, Jamie, and my dad, Lee.

Then my mom, Iselda, and Naomi’s mother and sister, Stella and Rebecca. You’ve met Emma and Isaac, and Liam’s two boys are Everett and Oliver. Everett is six and Oliver is eight.”

He also introduces his mother, Domina, and two other men from the station that Hank doesn’t recognize, Dillon and Falk. His brother, Shane, is out smoking in the backyard, and Damien is sleeping in his room down the hall.

“And you guys haven’t opened gifts yet?” Hank asks. He spies the pile of prettily wrapped presents still stacked under the tree, a pile Chris adds to with Hank and Connor’s. “This is quite the group to keep waiting on Christmas day.”

Rebecca sets Isaac down and turns more fully to Hank. “Wilson is on his way with my Aunt from the airport, so we’re just waiting for her,” she says. “But we probably wouldn’t have started without you guys anyway.”

Connor dips his chin, hiding a shy smile. Hank scratches his cheek awkwardly and nods in thanks. “Sorry we took so long.”

Naomi shrugs with a smile. “Don’t worry. Come in, have a seat! You’re making me uncomfortable just standing there.”

Hank swallows and follows her lead towards the less occupied couch. Only her and Rebecca are lounging on it on one end, leaving enough room for Hank and Connor next to them. Connor follows him and stretches out next to Hank, his long legs unfolding as he forces himself go relax back into the cushions. Thankfully he put himself between Naomi and Hank - Hank silently thanks him with a hand on his knee, taking solace in the warmth under Connor’s dark slacks.

Ben flicks his ear as he rounds the couch, catching Hank’s attention as conversation resumes between everyone. Hank smacks him lightly and looks up at his fellow detective, feeling a light smile spread on his face.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you two,” Ben says. “You guys doing okay after the case? How’s your shoulder?”

Hank rolls his right shoulder, feeling only a slight twinge. “It’s alright. I’ve definitely had worse.”

Ben snorts. “Yeah. I still remember that time you almost got gutted on one of your first cases. Some red ice dealer that didn’t like you poking around his boyfriend’s place.”

Hank rubs his stomach, feeling the scar through his shirt. Connor looks at him, alarmed, his brown eyes snapping to where Hank’s fingers linger over the old wound. Hank rubs his hand back over Connor’s thigh, soothing him.

“He jumped me from behind a doorway,” Hank explains. Connor’s fear doesn’t disappear, his LED blinking yellow, eyebrows still drawn tightly together. Hank grips his knee again and rolls his eyes. “Connor. I’m fine. I’m here now, aren’t I?”

Connor chews on the inside of his cheek. He nods, LED finally settling on blue again, his expression loosening. Hank doesn’t move his hand from his leg, not noticing the sideways glance from Naomi’s mother, Stella.

“And you?” Ben continues. Connor’s attention snaps to him as Ben gestures to his head. “Everything in your noggin come back okay?”

Connor smiles, small but relieved. “My memory was corrupted and buried under errors. The upload from my stasis terminal helped me clear much of them, but a few days after spending time around familiar people aided in regaining the rest of my memory. Thank you for asking.”

Ben nods, his own smile lighting up his face. “Of course, I’m glad you’re back. Hank was probably beside himself the whole time you were gone.”

Hank grumbles, embarrassment flushing hot up his neck. “Thanks, Ben. You’re a real friend announcing that to the whole room.”

“You’re welcome,” he says cheerily. “Do you want a drink?”

He shakes the beer in his hand lightly, and after glancing at Connor to make sure it’s alright, he nods. Ben tips his head and disappears into the kitchen, returning shortly with a beer. He’s called away to watch a video his husband has pulled up on his phone, leaving Hank and Connor alone again, Hank more comfortable now that he has the familiar comfort of alcohol.

Emma’s attention is drawn back to Connor when the android pulls out his quarter to fidget with. Her and the other children watch, rapt, along with Hank, Rebecca, Naomi, Stella, and Domina as Connor’s tricks get more complicated, a small smile forming on the android’s face as he moves his stare from his nimble fingers to Emma.

“Show off,” Hank grumbles. Connor flashes him an amused grin before he flicks the coin between his palms, then down his index finger to balance there as it spins on his fingertip. The kids watch, rapt - Oliver tries to snatch it away, but Connor flips it up his palm and makes it disappear up his sleeve. He reaches out and pulls it from behind Isaac’s ear, eliciting a small, shy smile from him and a chorus of giggles from the other kids. 

“Were you programmed to do that?” Stella says after one of Connor’s more flashy tricks, one that sends the coin nearly to the ceiling before he catches it again. Hank tenses as Connor starts to roll the quarter over his knuckles, ready to jump to his defense should he need it. He’s still not sure how the older adults of the group will react to Connor, his obvious deviancy notwithstanding. 

“Uh, I don’t think so?” Connor answers. Emma ventures closer timidly as Isaac, Emmett, and Oliver gather at Connor’s feet to watch. “I used to use it to calibrate my fine motor systems, but I found that I enjoyed the distraction when I felt nervous.”

He flips the coin in the air with his thumb and catches it, heads up, in his palm. He holds it out to Emma for her to take, his smile fond as she takes it and tries to mimic him to her friends. 

“It’s also an efficient way of annoying the Lieutenant,” Connor says, sly. Hank rolls his eyes and smacks his arm with the back of his hand while Stella smiles at them.

“It’s only annoying when you do it constantly in every single elevator we’ve ever been in,” Hank growls. “And I took it from you  _ one time _ . One time, Connor.”

Connor’s smile is amused. “And then proceeded to try and copy my tricks.”

Hank groans and shoves him. Rebecca laughs as Connor doesn’t budge next to her. “You guys are so great with each other,” she says through her laugh. “You’re practically married.”

Hank stiffens and Connor stills against his side. Connor recovers quicker than Hank does, his body relaxing and his smile relatively easy as he turns to face Rebecca. The conversation slides off of them as Damien starts to wake with gurgled cries down the hall, drawing Rebecca and Naomi to his room. Stella and Domina get up to check on food in the oven, and Chris moves to chat with his brother as he comes back in from his smoke. Sumo bounds in after him, his nails scratching across the hardwood floors as he makes a bee line for Hank and Connor.

“I was wondering where that idiot went,” Hank laughs. Sumo wiggles between the children as they jump up to pet him, momentarily caught between four pairs of little hands, soaking in the attention before he squeezes his head between Hank and Connor’s thighs. 

“Do you like all this attention?” Connor coos. Sumo waggles his big body, so full of energy that he nearly knocks away the two younger kids, Emmett and Isaac. Connor smoothes a hand down Sumo’s side to calm him. “Hey. Let them pet you too.”

Sumo calms immediately for him, the big dummy. Hank snorts and rubs his hand over his soft head, scratching behind his ears as he goes.

“Of course you listen to Connor and no one else,” Hank murmurs. Sumo boofs in response, tail thumping against the floor.

“Is he your dog?” Emma asks. Her little hands are buried in Sumo’s fur along with the other children’s, curling through it as he pants. Hank nods at her, his own fingers finding the spot behind his skull that makes him relax.

“He’s ours, yeah,” Hank says. He leans close, a smile forming on his face. “If he has puppies, would you like one?”

Emma’s face lights up. Isaac and the other kids perk up too, their eyes finding Hank’s. Connor huffs a quiet laugh next to him, his hands lifting Sumo’s head to rest in his lap.

“Really? You’d give me a puppy?” Emma says, excitement plain in her round face.

Hank points his thumb down the hallway Rebecca disappeared down with a wink. “Don’t tell your mom.” 

Emma nods seriously, her big brown eyes hardening. She holds out her hand with her pinky sticking out. “I pinky promise.”

Connor hides his smile in Hank’s shoulder as Hank pinky swears with Emma. “Pinky swear,” Hank laughs.

“I want a girl puppy,” she says. She resumes petting Sumo, speaking matter-of-factly like Hank is going to walk out the door and return with an armful of puppies for her to choose from as she talks. Oddly, he finds it not to be a bad idea. “And I want her to have a little bow on her head and a collar with a bell on it. And for her to have a big spot right here!”

She pokes Sumo in the side, earning another deep boof. 

“This is quite the list of demands,” Connor says, amused. Hank elbows him in the ribs, only slightly disappointed that the android doesn’t budge, his chassis unyielding against Hank’s side. 

Hank glares at him. Connor just smiles serenely - but Hank knows that smile. It’s devious, planning Hank’s demise with a sea of puppies as soon as they get home. 

Or worse. Connor’s poker face was always immaculate. It probably had something to do with his programming allowing him to lie, even if he had broken it. 

“Cheater,” Hank grumbles. Connor’s smile only gets more devious. Emma continues on like Hank hasn’t been glaring Connor down for the past thirty seconds.

Emma hums thoughtfully, her smile betraying her meandering thoughts. “I mean, I’ve always wanted a puppy,” she says. “But mom says I can’t have one yet. She says I have to do better in school before I can get one.”

She pouts, her lower lip sticking out. Hank scratches an itch under Sumo’s chin before answering, his tone curious. Connor watches him, brown eyes trained on his even as Hank tilts his head to catch Emma’s sad stare.

“Tell you what,” Hank says. He pats Sumo’s side with a thump, smiling when Emma looks up at him finally. “You can come over and say hi to Sumo whenever you want before you get your own puppy. That way you can see what it’s like to have a dog and the responsibility that comes with it. Sound good?”

Emma’s face immediately brightens. “Really? I can come see him whenever I want?”

“Within reason,” Hank chuckles. “Connor doesn’t sleep, but I do.”

“That’s so cool! Thank you!”

Emma hugs Sumo around his big neck before turning her smile to her brother and cousins. Isaac peeks out from where he’s been hiding next to Connor’s knee, one hand in Sumo’s fur and the other twisted in Connor’s slacks. He timidly reaches across Connor’s lap to poke Hank in the knee - Hank turns towards him, humming curiously.

“Can I come too?” Isaac says softly. 

Hank snorts and nods. “Yeah, kid. You can come too.”

Isaac hides his smile against Connor’s leg and starts petting Sumo again. Connor turns a fond grin on Hank, his hand brushing Hank’s over the top of their dog’s head, affection plain on his face. Hank clears his throat and tries to hide away behind his hair as the kids continue to molest Sumo as he wanders around, trying to find a place to collapse out of the way of traffic. 

Hank leans back into the cushions, glancing around the now mostly empty living room before he turns and presses a kiss onto Connor’s LED. Only Ben and Hugo are left in the room now, conversing quietly at the dining room table at the back of the room, the rest of the men having moved to the backyard for a communal smoke.

It’s close enough to being alone that he doesn’t move away when Connor tips his chin to kiss Hank properly.  Ben and Hugo won’t mind, and Hank can hear everyone else in the house, their conversations and footsteps far away enough that he’ll know if they move closer.

It’s safe. He relaxes, Connor’s lips sweet against his cheek.

“Does that mean we can get another dog?” Connor asks quietly. His excitement is barely concealed behind the kiss he presses against the corner of Hank’s mouth - Hank finds that he doesn’t mind the idea. 

Hank snorts. “Maybe. It’s not fair enough with us gone all the time at work. Sumo would appreciate a lady hanging around to keep him company.”

Connor’s face scrunches into a toothy smile. It’s an expression rare enough that merits another kiss - Hank brushes one against his chin before leaning away again, reinstituting space between them before Rebecca and Naomi return with little Damien in Naomi’s arms. 

“Do you remember Hank and Connor?” Naomi says, her voice high as she turns Damien to better face the two men on the couch. Connor’s face lights up immediately and he sits up, attentive as Naomi sits beside him. Rebecca sits next to her, her face fond.

“I’m afraid we didn’t meet properly,” Connor says. Naomi hums and shifts her baby in her arms, allowing him to crane his neck to better peer at Connor, his big eyes curious as his hands reach out to the android.

“You want to hold him?” she asks.

Connor falters. “I wasn’t designed for child care,” he says nervously. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know how to ho -“

“It’s okay. I’ll show you.”

Hank moves to sit on the edge of the couch to better watch Connor as Naomi guides Connor back into the cushions with one hand on his shoulder. Connor chews on his lip, LED beginning to blink rapidly, his brow twisting nervously. Naomi smiles at him sweetly and motions for him to hold out his hands.

“Just take him underneath his arms and balance him in your lap,” she says. He does so, his hands holding Damien where she indicates and settles the baby against his chest as Damien stands in his lap. Damien blinks and pokes Connor on his blinking LED. 

Naomi laughs. “See? Told you it would be alright. He likes you.”

Connor smiles as he settles Damien so he’s sitting in his lap, facing him. He holds Damien up with a hand on his back while Damien grips the fingers of his other, his little fists squeezing Connor’s fingertips as he gurgles. Connor’s smile is soft and fond, all tension from before melting away, murmuring along with Naomi as she preens over her baby.

Hank’s heart squeezes at the sight. Connor adapts so quickly that it’s almost like he was supposed to care for children, his hands gentle and tone soft as he introduces himself to Damien. But it also strikes Hank how Connor will never have children of his own, will never grow and age, will always be visually in his mid to late twenties (maybe early thirties, if Hank is feeling honest). He’s essentially immortal if he keeps up his system maintenance, a timeless being in a constantly changing world, destined to wander alone even if he makes lasting relationships with other androids. 

He hurts because of it, his chest burning with the thought of one day going away, leaving Connor alone once again. Naomi takes Damien away as he starts to fuss, shushing him and bouncing him in her own lap as Rebecca gets up to get a bottle. Hank chances touching Connor’s thigh, sliding his hand around to his knee, catching his attention.

Connor’s brown eyes are soft on Hank’s own as he curls his fingers into Hank’s palm. He seems to know what Hank’s thinking and squeezes his hand, smiling, small and private.

Hank smiles back. His uncertainty dissipates, his heart filling with warmth from Connor’s soft expression.

“I’ll be okay,” Connor says quietly. Hank nods, swallowing down the tightness in his throat.

“Okay,” Hank says hoarsely. Connor’s smile widens. “Okay.”

Half an hour passes until Wilson arrives with Rebecca’s Aunt, Kelly, the two of them bustling inside from the chilly morning with her luggage in tow. Wilson is only slightly surprised to see Hank and Connor mingling with everyone as he steps inside, probably surprised to see them out of a work setting. Kelly is quickly sucked into conversation with the women, leaving Wilson to awkwardly approach the loud conversation between Chris and Ben as they argue over whether to put on football or the Christmas Day parade as they open presents.

“It’s almost noon, the parade is probably almost over,” Ben says. “Besides, who is gonna man the camera if we’re all distracted by the next touchdown when the presents come out?”

“I can record the event,” Connor supplies helpfully. “My optics also function as high definition cameras, and I have more than enough memory to store the recordings.”

Ben motions towards Connor with a smug smile. “See? I knew we invited the android for a reason.”

Hank snorts. He slips a hand over Connor’s shoulder blades as Wilson timidly approaches on Connor’s other side, everyone’s attention turning to him.

“Connor?” Wilson asks. Connor shifts, his head tilting, curiosity tinging his expression. Wilson’s hand curls around Connor’s elbow as if he’s scared he isn’t actually standing there, fear deep in his dark eyes.

“I heard about the shooting,” Wilson says softly. Hank’s chest twinges as the memory of that early morning comes back to him: the gunshots, the feeling of thirium on his hands, his own hot blood soaking his shirt as he crawls across the floor to Connor. He blinks away the image, his hands tightening into fists.

Connor rubs a hand over his chest as he nods. “I - yes,” he says tightly. “My systems were corrupted temporarily, and many of my core biocomponents were damaged beyond repair. I was rebuilt again and regained my memory late last week.”

Wilson smiles, visibly deflating. “Good. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for your reinitialization. That must’ve been scary.”

Connor’s shoulders drop as the tension leaves him. “It’s quite alright. The second time was… more disorienting than the first.”

Hank rubs circles against the small of Connor’s back. “In more ways than one.”

Wilson shoots him a significant look. He drops the subject, and Hank relaxes. 

“Shall we open gifts, then?” Liam says. “The kids are probably dying to see what they got.”

Chris snorts. “Yeah. Might as well not make them wait anymore now that Auntie is here.”

Hank idly thinks of Cole’s last Christmas before the accident as the adults call the children back into the living room. Cole had been so excited, bouncing up and down against Hank’s chest as he woke him at seven in the morning on the dot. He’d squealed as Hank scooped him up and carried him upside down to the couch, laughed as Hank dropped him there and tickled him. His big blue eyes had been so full of wonder as he tore into his presents - meager because of his ex-wife’s inability to pay child support for the past couple months, but still enough to sate a six year old’s desire for gifts. 

The stocking had always been Cole’s favourite. It was Hank’s too, the little toys and candies that Cole liked most buried in that sock like a treasure chest full of gold. He’d always found neat little things that Cole squirrelled away to his already-full dresser, model airplanes and small wind up dinosaurs, things like that. Stuff so small and inconsequential that made him so happy it was worth taking the hit to the bills to see Cole’s thrilled expression.

Seeing Rebecca and Liam’s kids tearing into their presents is no different. He sits with Connor pressed against his side, a warm line that’s as much home to him as his actual house. He gets lost in thought, the comfort of Connor next to him enough to draw his attention away until two wrapped boxes are set in his lap.

He blinks and sits up a little more properly. His fingers trail over the bigger of the two boxes - maybe as big as a large book, and heavy like one. He raises a brow at Ben as the other detective steps away and sits next to Chris on the couch across from him.

“I swear it’s not gonna bite,” Ben laughs. “Chris and I got it for you. The little one is from Connor.”

Hank turns his curious look on Connor, who smiles.

“Open mine later,” he says quietly.

“Okay,” Hank says cautiously. Ben snorts another laugh as he sets Connor’s gift aside and starts opening Ben and Chris’, careful not to seem too eager. He gets the shiny red paper off and opens the white box under it, his confused expression deepening as he stares down at a familiar manila folder.

“Did you get me a  _ case file? _ ” he asks incredulously. Chris ducks his head sheepishly as Hank pulls out the file and opens it.

“It’s the one you and Connor were working on the past couple weeks,” he explains. “Reed finally closed it yesterday.”

Hank flips through the file. He skips all the gruesome photos and case notes until he gets to the end report, plucking it out from everything else and closing the file. He scans the report as Connor leans against him to get a better look.

“So that android really did have something out for Connor,” Hank mumbles. He holds the packet to Connor for the android to flip through, his LED whirling.

“Yeah, seems like,” Chris muses. He smiles as Emma comes over to show him the brand new set of hair accessories from her mother, then turns his attention back to Hank once she’s satisfied. “Markus ended up confirming with his own investigation that she was working with a small group of androids to eventually use the data on Connor’s CPU to infiltrate Cyberlife.”

Hank turns in time to see Connor’s expression tighten. He’s scanning the file still, his eyes dark and far away. Hank touches his hand lightly, getting only a small sound from Connor in return.

“The man working with Robert - his son’s friend - had been in on the plan all along,” Connor murmurs. “He dropped the jammer to allow you to find me. So that Lillian could eventually lure us to Jericho that night. You and I were supposed to die there, and then she’d hijack my memory to suit her needs.”

Hank doesn’t like the hooded look on Connor’s face. It’s too distant, too hurt and lost - he plucks away the report and stuffs it back into the file, shoving it all back into the box. Ben and Chris look guilty when he glances back up at them.

“Sorry,” Chris says. “We thought you might’ve wanted closure.”

Hank manages a tight smile. “It’s alright. We’ll go through it later.”

Connor is still stiff against him, only relaxing minutely when Naomi touches his arm and holds out a small pile of gifts to him. Hank’s own apprehension disappears as Connor accepts the gifts with a small smile and a whispered thank you.

“We didn’t know what to get you,” Naomi says. “Chris said you didn’t have much on your desk at work, and that Wilson got you a tie clip already. So I apologize if these are kind presumptuous.”

Connor sits up, the funk from a few minutes ago gone from his face and posture. 

“That any of you got me something is a gift of its own,” Connor says. He turns a smile on Hank, small and warm and so, so bright. Hank grins back and motions to the presents in Connor’s lap.

“Well,” he says. “It’d be rude not to open them.”

“Right. Sorry.”

His long fingers pick at the paper delicately, removing the tape in a way that doesn’t damage the colorful wrapping. He unwraps the first to find two ties - one a solid black with glittering stars across the matte fabric, little LEDs flashing in random constellations, and the other patterned with blue and white roses lined with gold. Connor sets them aside delicately with a soft smile.

“I picked them out,” Naomi says proudly. “I thought the blue would match nicely with your LED.”

Connor turns his stunning smile on her. “That’s kind of you. I like them.”

She smiles back. “Of course. Now open Chris’. I think he might explode if you take any longer.”

Hank snorts and throws a glance at Chris. She’s right - the younger man is practically vibrating in his seat, eager to cover his earlier mistake with something better. Connor wastes no time opening the second of his presents with the same careful pace as before.

Inside the little black box under the paper is a dark leather wallet. It’s tooled with tight swirls, spinning across the supple leather like the fine dance of snowflakes falling from the sky. His fingers stroke across the surface, taking in the texture before he opens it, finding a silver money clip and a prepaid card for a men’s clothing warehouse. Connor smiles and holds it out for Hank to inspect as he looks up at Chris.

“That must have been quite expensive,” Connor says. “I apologize if that was too much.”

Chris scoffs. “Don’t worry about the price, man. A gift is a gift. I imagine soon you’ll need a place to put your debit card and ID and stuff, anyway.”

Connor hums and pulls his bank card from his back pocket. Hank takes it and slides it into one of the pockets in the wallet, smoothing his hands over it before folding it and handing it back. It was nice, and matched Connor’s affinity for detail to a T.

“The next one is for both of you,” Naomi says. Connor turns the next gift in his hands, raising a curious brow. Hank turns a wary look on her that she laughs at. “Jesus, Hank, really. It’s not what you think.”

“Uhhuh,” Hank intones. “There are preschool toys in the room, you know.”

Connor rolls his eyes. “Hank.”

“I’m just saying!”

Connor sighs and opens the gift. It’s small, maybe only slightly bigger than a wedding ring box. He snaps it open and takes out a pair of keys, both with a familiar dongle. He holds out one ring for Hank to take, his face curiously surprised.

“A new cruiser?” he says.

Chris nods. “From Fowler. He says he’s not mad about the other one getting a bullet through the window.”

Hank laughs. “At least I’m not the only one that got a work-related gift. I was beginning to feel left out.”

“You still have mine left,” Connor says petulantly.

“That you won’t let me open in front of everyone else,” Hank reminds him.

“Because it’s -“ Connor stops himself, his face twisting in frustration. Many of the adult’s eyes land on him, momentarily distracted from watching the kids play around with their new toys as Connor’s skin peels away from his right hand. He flexes his fingers, the interlocking pieces of his chassis whisper quiet as they click together as he moves. Dawning overcomes Hank and he nods, carefully hiding it behind his hand as he draws his palm over his mouth and beard.

“It’s okay,” Hank soothes. The skin over Connor’s hand returns, much to the amazement of the kids. Hank snorts and pockets the keys while throwing a grateful glance between Chris and Naomi.

“You’re going to have to show them now,” Rebecca muses. Connor raises a brow at her as he carefully folds the wrapping paper from his gifts and sets his ties aside on the coffee table. She motions to his hand, a small smile spreading on her face. “What you did with your hand, I mean.”

“Oh,” Connor says. Hank watches as the kids stop opening presents to gather curiously around Connor, their eyes stuck on his right hand.

“It won’t be weird for them?” Connor asks. “You said they haven’t been around androids. It may be frightening.”

Rebecca shrugs. “It doesn’t hurt, right? It’s not like you’re he only android you’re going to meet.”

“I suppose not. As long as you’re sure.”

She makes an encouraging sound in her throat. Connor rolls up the sleeve of his right arm as far as it will go, folding the cuff around his bicep, revealing soft skin peppered with freckles. Hank watches, just as curious as everyone else, as the skin from Connor’s arm vanishes, moving away starting at his fingertips. His chassis is stark white against the black of his shirt, all the edges of the interlocking pieces glowing a light blue, barely noticeable with the overhead lights and the sun shining through the back sliding glass door. 

Hank’s seen enough of his chassis to know how delicate and sturdy it was, even as Connor twists his arm to show how the pieces click and move together as he moves. Naomi reaches out to brush her fingers across his forearm, snatching her hand away when Connor flinches.

“Did that hurt?” she says. “I’m sorry. I should have asked.”

Connor shakes his head, smoothing the knot that formed between his brows as she touched him. “No, sensation is just heightened without the barrier of my skin to mute it. My touch receptors are all along the surface of each piece, so they’re sensitive when exposed like this.”

The skin appears over his arm again and he rolls down the sleeve. Emma and the other children sigh in disappointment.

“Your arm is so cool,” Emma laments. “I wish it didn’t hurt to touch.”

Hank snorts and Connor manages a tight smile. “There’s no pain. It’s more like being tickled in the same spot even though you told someone to stop.”

Naomi touches over his arm where she had earlier, an apology plain in her face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think about it.”

“I promise it’s alright,” Connor soothes, voice low. “It’s just - strange, having all the attention on me.”

“We’ll let you be, then,” Naomi responds. She smile sweetly and pats his knee before turning her attention back to her family, oohing and ahhing at the gifts they get. Hank brushes a hand over Connor’s shoulders, pulling his attention to him. 

He holds Connor’s gift in his hand and raises a brow. “Want to open this with me?”

Connor’s smile is appreciative. “Yes. I’d like that.”

Hank gets up off the couch and picks his way through the now littered living room to the back room he slept in while staying with Chris and Naomi. Connor follows, waving at Chris and Ben as he leaves, reassuring them that they’ll be back. Hank shuts the door behind him with a soft click and flicks on the light before he sits down next to Connor on the bed, turning the mid-sized present over in his hands.

“It was quite expensive, and not easy to find,” Connor explains softly. Hank raises a brow and picks at the gold bow taped to the top. Connor smiles sheepishly. “I’m not saying that to make you feel bad. I ordered it from a medical company working on communicating with comatose patients. I... just want you to know.”

Hank huffs and wraps his hand around Connor’s nape. Their foreheads come together in an embrace, Connor’s hands working uneasily over each other in his lap. “You’re fine, Connor. I could care less if it was a piece of paper with a stick drawing on it. That you got me anything at all when I didn’t get you something is nice.”

“I wasn’t expecting anything,” Connor murmurs. He leans forward and kisses Hank, chaste and quick. “Being here is gift enough.”

Hank feels a blush bloom up his collar. “Fucking sap.”

Connor smiles. “Learned from the best, Lieutenant.”

Hank smacks his arm and tears open the paper around his present. Inside is a heavy box, its lid clasped closed with a little cardboard latch. He picks it open with his nail and shuffles out the bottom of the box inside, raising a brow as he flips over the film of plastic covering a couple pieces of what look like headphones in the styrofoam backing.

“Uh,” Hank says elegantly. “What is it.”

Connor grins and picks up one of the pieces from its cozy little space. Now that Hank looks at it, it looks more like a cochlear implant than headphones, one end long and flat with a cord leading to a more traditional in-the-ear headphone. Connor places the headphone in his left ear and smoothes the flat piece attached to it over his temple, his fingers delicately brushing over the soft skin there. The flat piece stays there, sticking to his skin with a gel-like adhesive that feels cool against his pulse.

Connor takes out the next piece and unfolds it. It looks like a wireframe from a 3D model hand, jointed and pressed flat between a flexible semi-opaque sheet of plastic in the shape of Hank’s palm. 

“Hold out your hand,” Connor says. Hank flattens his left palm out for Connor to take, only slightly weirded out as Connor presses the piece of film over his hand with the same cool adhesive as the thing on his temple. Connor pulls a thin cord from the box and plugs it into the hand interface, then runs it up to the headphone, where he hooks it over the shell of Hank’s ear to keep it in place. He pushes Hank’s hair out of the way with a slightly vulnerable look on his face in the same movement, his eyes unreadable.

“It’s powered by my internal electrical frequency,” Connor starts. Hank raises a brow, curiosity plain across his face. Connor smiles and takes Hank’s hand in his own, the skin peeling away to reveal his chassis. “I will tune it to my broadband wavelength so that it only works with me. I hope that’s okay.”

“Connor,” Hank says slowly. He has an idea of what this is, his heart thundering hard against his ribs. But he wants Connor to say it, wants those words spoken into existence. He burns with it, every cell inside him vibrating with nervous energy. “What is this?”

Connor’s other hand traces lightly over Hank’s face. He looks pained, and about half a second away from taking everything away if Hank isn’t totally pleased with his answer. Hank wraps his free arm around Connor and brings him closer, peering into those worried brown eyes, relaxing his body language so that Connor feels safe.

“I’m not mad,” Hank says. “I just want to know. I think I have an idea, but humor me, here.”

Connor’s mouth pinches before his expression relaxes into a small smile. “It’s an interface point,” he explains quietly. “A link between my CPU and your brain. It’s not as intricate as a data swap between myself and another android, but the sensation and exchange of data should be near-equivalent in nature. I can see your memory and feel your emotions and sensations, and you can see and feel mine.”

Hank swallows thickly. “It won’t hurt you?”

Connor sighs, his grin still present. “No, Hank, and it won’t hurt you, either.”

“I don’t give a shit about myself. Just as long as you don’t fry your brain again, it’s fine.”

Only a half truth, but Connor gets the idea. His other hand rests on Hank’s chest, right over his heartbeat, soothing himself as he spreads their fingers and presses the palms of their other hands together. He kisses Connor again because he can, then nods, giving his go ahead for Connor to start the interface.

He’s nervous as Connor’s LED begins to rapidly blink yellow, his eyes unfocusing as the interface between their palms begins to pulse with the same blue glow of Connor’s chassis. Hank continues to hold him close as a strange tickling sensation begins in his wrist, then climbs rapidly all the way up his arm, neck, and face to his temple. The hum he feels against his hand when Connor attempts to interface with him normally fills his head with a soft, low tone, soothing as much as it’s frightening to have another consciousness try and wiggle its way into his brain. But then the fear goes away, Connor’s thoughts clicking into place next to his, a vastly different sensation that it had been when he and Connor interfaced in his dream.

Yes, it’s much, much different than before. In his dream, Connor had been a heavy weight over him, pressing down on his jumbled thoughts as his own, chaotically ordered ones sifted through Hank’s memories. He’d seen and experienced things from Connor’s perspective that he doesn’t readily remember, though it’s no surprise reality is much different than what his brain could ever come up with. 

Instead of being a weighted blanket on Hank’s brain, Connor slides easily next to his own consciousness, all of his ordered thoughts sliding right along his own. They coexist like that until Hank prods him, searching for what Connor had explained was an exchange of thought and memory, looking for anything that could possibly cross over between their connection.

Connor lets him, amused and curious. His thoughts slip over Hank’s, glimpses only for a moment before Hank focuses on them. He catches love and affection mostly, feels Connor’s chest constrict with it after another moment of hard concentration, feels a heart tighter and smaller than his own beating away just a little too quickly in his chest. After that, they’re suddenly one, Hank experiencing everything as himself and Connor at the same time, the odd feeling of machinery whirring in his body nearly sending him reeling.

He he feels the cool slide of thirium through his veins, bringing heat away from his more delicate sensors and processes and dumping electricity throughout his biocomponents as it goes. He feels an onslaught of information, too, idle processes running in the background as scans pop up in his vision (his vision full of  _ Hank _ , his eyes flicking over Hank’s awed expression, taking in the crows feet at the corners of his eyes and the slackness of his mouth, so much live there as he takes it all in, love and desire and so much more Hank can barely handle it all). He knows precisely how quickly his heart is beating - 102 bpm, thirium thrumming through his systems, a flutter of artificial muscle that pounds in his ears. He can hear the murmur of conversation beyond the door and Hank’s own deep breathing; he can feel every ridge and bump over the skin of his neck as Connor’s hand drifts up to cup his jaw, his palm tickling with the feeling of his own beard prickling Connor’s sensitive skin.

He feels it all, Connor’s systems a flurry of activity, adjusting and cross checking each other even as he sits idly. He can feel the connection between them pulsing with a bright light, blinding him as he tries to look too closely. Connor loves him, can feel it in his bones, can feel how much it swells inside Connor’s chest and fills his processes with nothing but  _ Hank. _

Connor’s brain is so active that Hank shrinks away for a moment to take in his own shaky breath. Connor shutters in his arms, a sigh escaping him, and Hank feels more than he sees the bolt of want that shoots up Connor’s spine and lights up his brain. He feels heat pool in his gut - both of them, his and Connor’s - and feels, even without pressing too hard, Connor’s thoughts scatter at the sound of another of one Hank’s shuttering sighs.

He doesn’t pull his hand away even as he drowns in the heat of Connor’s desire for him. It’s weird to experience something like this in reference to himself, weird to feel attracted to his own hair and beard, his broad shoulders and thick fingers. What was once a simple exchange of thought and sensation is now a full transfer of Connor’s sexual desire for him, and instead of being disgusted, Hank finally understands.

Connor wasn’t doing this because he wanted Hank to feel how horny he got for Hank at the drop of a hat. Hank isn’t stupid, even if he tries to drown his brain cells in alcohol on a near daily basis (or used to, and that train of thought earns him an appreciative hum from Connor’s end). He’s smart enough to know that Connor’s desire for him ran deeper than that, even as he tried to deny it.

No. Connor wanted to show him because he understands how Hank still questions every aspect of his attraction to him, how he actively tries to depreciate himself even if he feels the same hot desire for Connor. Society has conditioned him to hate how he looks, to despise his own sexuality and his body image because he was “past his prime”. But Connor saw through it all - had never been programmed to even fucking notice - and Hank finally understands that Connor desires him for  _ him  _ rather than what he perceives Hank should desire him for.

It’s a heavy feeling that leaves Hank both choked up with how much he loves this stupid android, and leaves him with a straining erection in his jeans. Connor smiles sheepishly and slowly pulls their minds apart, delicately extracting himself before his skin forms back over his palm, cutting their thoughts off from each other.

“I’m sorry if that was too much,” Connor whispers. Hank peels the interface from his hand and temple before he places them in their box, then moves it safely out of the way to the bedside table. When he moves back to Connor, the android is fidgeting nervously, eyes firmly planted down at his own lap.

Hank gathers him into his arms and presses a soft kiss against the curve of his cheek. Connor melts instantly, his arms wrapping around Hank’s shoulders as he returns the kiss.

“That was really nice,” Hank murmurs, then winces. “Nice” doesn't fully encapsulate what he feels about the entire experience - in fact, it barely begins to cover it. It had been incredible feeling Connor as close as he’s ever felt him, a brain so much bigger than his sifting through everything he was to find the core of him to wrap around. “Nice” couldn’t define the experience even if he and Connor were still linked.

Connor doesn’t seem offended in the least. “I liked it, too. I… wanted you to know how I felt. So you would stop arguing when I say I find you attractive.”

Hank sighs even as he smiles. “You can’t erase years of bad self image even with something as fancy as that, Connor.” He kisses away the furrow between Connor’s brow, smoothing a hand up Connor’s back. “But I do understand. Gave me a boner from it, too, y’know.”

“I can take care of that,” Connor says, low and sultry. His hand slides down Hank’s stomach to rest lightly over the hardness pressing through his pants.

It’s tempting, Hank has to admit. He wants so badly to push Connor down to his knees and fuck that pretty little mouth, wants to know if Connor has a gag reflex or if he can take Hank down in one go. The temptation is there even as he moves Connor’s hand away and intertwines their fingers.

“It’ll go away in a couple minutes,” Hank says. “Besides, I’m pretty sure they already think we’re fooling around in here.”

Connor hums and presses his face into the crook of Hank’s neck. “I think I’m too loud for that.”

That startles a laugh out of Hank. He squeezes Connor into a hug and then stands, adjusting his flagging erection so it's less visible when they leave. Connor smiles and pecks him sweetly before leading the way back out to the living room.

At this point, everyone has dispersed into their own conversations, some looking up to not so discreetly to assess Hank and Connor as they return to their spot on the couch. Hank tucks his gifts under the couch along with Connor’s for safe keeping, then throws his arm behind Connor on the back of the couch, allowing the android to curl up against his side. Chris, Ben, Naomi, and Hugo pay them no mind as Connor folds his long legs up against his chest and rests his head back on Hank’s shoulder, his arms loosely wrapped around his knees. Everyone else seems to zero in on the sight even as they carry on with their conversations.

Hank ignores them. He has what he wants, even if he had to fight tooth and fucking nail to get it, and if he has to live with being exposed at work or around near-strangers to bask in it, he will. He’s tired of running away, and he’s tired of hiding Connor when he knows the android wants nothing more than to live as close to his truest self as he can. He wants to experience life and not drown himself in his past any longer - if that means peeling away all his walls for the world to see, so be it.

Connor shifts against him, his body full of a nervous energy that Hank can barely smooth away with a hand over his shoulders. Connor turns, his expression twisted in confusion, a question burning in his eyes.

“Is this okay?” he asks quietly. Hank knows he means everything around them - the gift giving, the closeness, the affection.

Hank would have hated it not too long ago. He would have shrunk away and hid from everything if given half the chance, but now that he’s here, in the moment surrounded by friends and the easy comfort of Connor against him, he can’t imagine ever falling back into his normal routines. He doesn’t want this to ever go away - he wants to cherish it forever, this broken thing he calls home. 

It’s imperfect, and still suffering growing pains. Connor has suffered too much lately to be okay so quickly, and Hank hurts too much to get over his own demons. But he kisses Connor’s hair anyway, relishing in the warmth that blooms hot and deep in his chest, Connor’s weight heavy and comfortable as the android leans further against his side.

“Yeah, Connor,” Hank murmurs against his dark curls. “Yeah. It’s okay.”

And it is. Finally,  _ finally,  _ it is.  

He’s home. 


End file.
